Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bar fight/Road/The drunk tank, and after/Rick is fine/An old foe/Tricks/The evening shift

Rick shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, the synthetic fibres of his pale beige shirt making him itchy while his sweat soaked through the material under his arms. It was so hot tonight that he felt like he was drowning.

"You alright, man?" Shane diverted his attention away from the dusty, deserted road ahead to look across at Rick. The concerned expression on his partner's face was one Rick was getting more than a little tired of.

"Fine," Rick replied, a little sharper than was perhaps necessary, he knew. He wriggled against the car seat, face scrunched up. "I'm just getting used again to how damn uncomfortable our uniforms are. And -" Rick swiped a hand along the dashboard "You've been eating in the car again, haven't you?"

Shane shrugged, wiping sweat off his top lip with the back of his hand.

"You've not been here to steal half my fries," he quipped. "So I've been taking advantage of that fact."

Rick pursed his lips in disapproval and flicked the faded green magic tree that was hanging from the mirror; the same one he had bought months before, its pine forest scent long since gone.

"Speaking of which," Shane continued, rubbing a hand across his stomach. "It's almost 10 o'clock. Could do with a coffee and a doughnut or something. You want to stop at the next store we pass?"

"I'm fine," Rick replied. "I'll get something on my way home later."

"Sure?" there was that concerned look again on Shane's face as he slowed the car. "Keep you going, you know."

"I said I'm fine," Rick gritted his teeth. "I don't need to be all amped up on sugar all night like you."

Shane turned his attention back to the steering wheel, knowing when not to press matters.

"Okay man, just looking out for my partner."

As much as Rick disliked feeling like he was being wrapped in cotton wool, these shifts did give Shane a chance to fill him in on everything Rick had missed in his absence. Not just who Shane was dating this week, or who had stolen whose lunch from the station's staff room - but also about the local troublemakers that they dealt with regularly. He listened to Shane chatter as they cruised around neighborhoods on the outskirts of the county, passing liquor stores and homes covered in peeling paint that had rusty bicycles lying in their overgrown gardens. A far cry from the suburban comfort of Rick's former home. He resisted the urge to lean his head against the window and close his eyes, the orange glow of street lights beginning to make his head ache.

Maybe volunteering to work the drunk tank shift tonight after his normal run out with Shane had been a mistake, but it was either that or go back to the house. And he knew he wouldn't sleep if he did.

He rarely did, now.

Shane was still talking as they approached a bar they had been called out to more times than Rick cared to remember. A neon Budweiser sign outside flickered on and off, bugs hovering around its glow. A sole motorcycle was parked outside.

Rick started at the click of the car's indicator, and he saw Shane turn the wheel.

"Been a pretty boring shift," Shane grinned. "C'mon, let's just go in and have a look see, even just to piss off some of those old assholes in there." Shane pointed to his crotch. "And I really need a piss."

The car came to a halt and Rick reluctantly stepped out onto the small parking lot, putting his hat on; his hand automatically drifting down to check his gun was there. He saw no reason to make an unscheduled call to The Hilltop Bar; if the people in there weren't outside causing trouble, then Rick was happy to let them get blackout drunk in peace. The night air was still warm, and his tongue prickled at the thought of having a beer himself; he imagined a brown glass bottle with drops of condensation running down onto a beer mat, and ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

The heavy wooden door creaked as Shane pushed it open, and Rick's nose was immediately assaulted with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the acridity of urine. It was dark and musty inside, and he heard the satisfying smacking noise of pool cues hitting balls.

Rick held back, clearly there was no trouble here, but Shane swaggered across the sticky tiled floor, tipping his hat sarcastically to the patrons.

"Good evening, folks," he sneered with thinly veined disgust, and not for the first time Rick felt uncomfortable at his partner's treatment of people who had fallen on hard times. As Shane walked behind the bar and helped himself to a cold can of Coke, Rick heard a commotion coming from somewhere behind the pool table.

"Fuckin' say that again an' I'll fuckin' ram that pool cue so far up ya I'll..."

"Shane," Rick sprung into action, striding purposefully towards the source of the angry shouting.

A tall, muscular man with a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck was pinned against the wall, his eyes bulging with fear and his head pressed back against the rusted metal beer and cigarette adverts that adorned the red brick walls of the bar. He was wriggling, red-faced, and beginning to gasp for breath. Rick could just about make out the words he was gurgling. I didn't mean it, okay? Just let me go. I'm sorry.

Thick fingers were wrapped around Scorpion Tattoo's neck, and Rick saw shaggy dark hair and the back of a leather motorcycle kutte – a typical biker type. Trouble. He barely had time to register that there were grubby, torn angel wings on the back of the kutte, before Shane was jumping in front of Rick, wrapping his arms around the biker's waist and wrenching him away. The victim collapsed onto the ground, panting and swearing as he got his breath back.

"Shane, go easy," Rick warned, watching as his partner slammed the biker up against the wall. For the first time, Rick saw the biker's face – or at least, the parts of his face that weren't obscured by tendrils of damp hair. He had narrowed eyes and high cheekbones like some sort of strange cat; a mole to the side of thin lips. In keeping with his appearance, he seemed to hiss and snarl and claw under Shane's restraint.

"Fuckin' get yer hands off me," the biker growled, and Rick briefly raised an eyebrow at how his partner seemed to be using every ounce of strength he had.

Rick kept an eye on Scorpion Tattoo as he pulled himself up off the floor, gripping onto the edge of the pool table. Rick held a hand up in front of him, preventing him from re-starting the fight. He could hear Scorpion Tattoo's labored breathing, and watched as he wiped blood from the side of his mouth, smearing it across his cheek.

"Go on, get out of here," Rick told him coldly. It was the best way to deal with these assholes; send them on their way to sober up and hope they laid low for a few nights. Scorpion Tattoo scurried away, throwing the biker a smug glance as he did so.

Shane still had the biker against the wall, his hands gripping onto the collar of the man's gray shirt. Rick tipped his head back, sighing and rolling his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to be standing in this place, listening to the sneers and barely-disguised jibes of the patrons that were watching the scene unfolding. The jukebox was playing a Motorhead song too loudly to be comfortable, and from a table nearby there was the stench of cheap perfume emanating from some less than desirable looking women, their teeth rotten and their hair bleached and broken.

"C'mon, Shane," Rick tapped his partner's arm, inwardly frustrated that Shane was making something out of nothing, when the rest of their shift had been peaceful.

Shane didn't move, but he released his grip on the biker slightly. Rick watched the man's jaw clench and unclench, his cheeks hollowing as he clearly debated whether to make a wise-ass comment.

"This prick's spending a night in the drunk tank," Shane said decisively, grabbing the neck of the biker's shirt and guiding him across the bar and out the door. Shane handed Rick the car keys and Rick opened the back door of the car, where Shane put his hand roughly on top of the biker's head and bustled the man inside. The biker gave an angry grunt as he sat down.

"My bike's here," he spat, and Rick glanced over at the old Triumph that was parked outside.

"Don't give a shit," Shane retorted. "Unless you want a DUI on top of it all, I suggest you shut the fuck up." He slammed the door shut and Rick threw him an irritated glance.

"It was just a bar fight – not worth the paperwork," Rick muttered as he and Shane got into the front. "Is there any need for this?"

"Let me tell you, there's every need when it involves a Dixon," Shane replied, jabbing a thumb in the biker's direction. He looked up into the rear view mirror at their surly companion and fired a question at him. "You're the brother, right?"

There was no response. Rick started the engine and pulled away from the bar, his mind racing with names and faces of offenders over the years. That surname rang a bell alright; memories of arrests for car thefts and meth. Not this Dixon, though. Rick's mind wasn't at its best after everything, that was for sure, but he'd never seen the man before. He made a mental note to ask Shane who he was during their shift the next day.

Rick would be making Shane fill in the paperwork for this one, he decided. His hotheaded partner was prone to taking instant dislikes to some folk and then somehow they usually ended up being Rick's problem. Not this time; if it had been up to him, he'd have separated this Dixon character and the asshole with the scorpion tattoo and sent them both on their way. If he and Shane threw every bar thug they came across into the drunk tank, they would take up most of the station and its parking lot.

Rick yawned; he had driven this route back to the station hundreds of times, both for work and in his personal life too. He remembered when he was a rookie and getting used to late night shifts like this. He'd be exhausted but wired as fuck too, and it would make him think he was seeing things on empty stretches of country roads – shadows of trees would turn into monsters with long, spindly fingers; a fox running across his path would be some sort of gigantic cryptid.

Tonight the full moon beamed through the car window, casting its eerie light across the road in front of them, so bright that it illuminated the thin figure of the girl who began to step in front of the car. In the split second before Rick automatically hit the brakes, he saw her face – gaunt and pale save for her mouth, which was opened so wide that it seemed like nothing more than a black hole. Around her eye sockets the skin was so shadowed that it almost looked bruised. Rick pressed the brake sharply, throwing Shane forward towards the dash. Rick automatically looked up into the rear view mirror, seeing Dixon calmly staring right at him with narrowed eyes and a curious expression as Rick shut his eyes and waited to feel the sick thud of a body hitting the car.

Nothing.

The car kept moving.

Shane slammed a fist down onto the dashboard, spittle flying from his mouth as he looked at Rick, infuriated.

"Man, what the FUCK?"

"Jesus!" Rick exclaimed, his body managing to be sweaty but ice cold at the same time. He felt like vomiting as he looked back at the road, seeing that there was nobody there. He steadied himself, straightening the car up and breathing slowly in and out in an attempt to get his heart rate back to normal.

"I thought... in the middle of the road... I saw..." he babbled.

"Saw what?" Shane rubbed the back of his neck, acting cool now after his outburst.

"I..." Rick shook his head, sensing that he shouldn't say what he had seen. Thought he had seen? Fuck.

Shane touched his enclosed fist against Rick's arm lightly, his voice a little softer; like he was talking down a scared child.

"Hey, you're tired, man," he soothed. "Seen plenty of shit that wasn't there myself on a night shift. You sure you want to do the extra shift tonight, Rick? Maybe it's too much for you since you got back..."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Rick interrupted, wishing the whole incident hadn't happened. No matter what he did, he was going to get this over-concerned, babying shit from Shane. And all the while, Dixon was in the back seat, listening. "Just – don't bring every single thing back to what happened, okay?"

"I'm just looking out for my buddy, is all..."

"I know. But -," Rick sighed heavily. "I guess it was just that damn full moon tonight. Making the road look... you know?"

Shane gave an unconvinced nod and pointed towards the windshield.

"Hey man, next quiet stretch of road, pull over," he said.

Rick looked across at him, incredulous.

"Huh?"

"Didn't get to have my piss at that bar thanks to the asshole in the back."

"Shane, we're on our way to..."

"Jesus Rick, it'll take two fucking seconds," Shane snapped, taking off his seatbelt. "You want me to go right here, right now?"

Rick sighed, feeling oddly embarrassed.

"You're an animal, Walsh, you know that?"

Rick slowed, pulling up alongside a thicket of trees. Shane practically ran out of the car such was his need to relieve himself, and Rick flashed the headlights at him as a joke. Brazen, Shane pissed in full view of the car, Rick looking down at his hands on the steering wheel, instead of his partner's clenching ass.

The atmosphere in the car felt strange, heavy, and Rick looked up at the rear view mirror. Dixon was looking downward and chewing on a thumbnail, but seemed to sense that he was being watched. He met Rick's eyes, jaw jutting out as if daring Rick to say something. Rick opened his mouth, but wasn't sure what to say.

"What?" Dixon broke the silence, his voice low and rasping.

Rick glanced outside quickly, seeing that Shane was still unzipped a few metres away. If he knew Rick was talking to one of their arrests, he'd never let Rick hear the end of it. Shane already thought that Rick was too soft, too willing to give some of these people the benefit of the doubt. Shane saw everything in black and white. Rick, particularly since he had come back to work, preferred to see the varying shades in between in everything he did.

"Why did you look at me, before?" Rick managed to ask, trying to keep his tone aloof and professional. "When I braked."

Dixon turned his attention back to looking at his feet, his expression surly. Rick sighed, knowing he was going to have to play the role of asshole cop.

"If a police officer asks you a question, you -"

"Ya wouldn't be interested in what I have ta say," Dixon interrupted.

"Try me."

"No," came the cold response, shortly followed by the crunch of Shane's heavy footsteps coming back to the car.

Rick raised an eyebrow as Shane got back in and sat down with a grin.

"Man, did I need that piss." He turned around to look at the back seat. "Hope you weren't checking out my junk, Dixon."

Rick cringed inwardly. Shane's behaviour could be uncouth and embarrassing at the best of times, but something about Dixon made Rick feel even more uncomfortable with his partner's actions than normal.

"Doubt I could see it close up let alone when yer metres away," Dixon snarked, and Rick bit down onto the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.

Shane leant into the back of the car, pointing at Dixon angrily, his cheeks highly colored.

"Now listen here, you little shit, one more peep out of your piehole and..."

"Shane," Rick stopped him from continuing. "Ignore him, okay? Ignore him."

Shane turned around reluctantly, settling himself back into the passenger seat with an irritated sigh. Rick rolled his eyes, used to his fits of temper. Not for the first time he wondered if sheer nostalgia for their childhood friendship was the only thing stopping them from murdering one another.

"He deserves more than a night in the drunk tank, that's all I'm saying," Shane eventually moaned with a dramatic gesture of hands. Rick gave a nod, it was always easier to just pretend he agreed.

"Let's just get back to the station," Rick replied calmly, looking up and catching Dixon's eye once more before quickly looking away.

=

Rick almost enjoyed listening to the early-morning chatter of the drunk tank's inhabitants, their tongues thick and voices hoarse after a night of too much alcohol and too little water. Most of them weren't bad guys, not really, and there was almost a sense of camaraderie as they nursed their hangovers and laughed lightly about how they had ended up there. Only Dixon was quiet, lying down on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the corner, his bunched-up jacket beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. Rick wondered if he was used to being there; he certainly seemed unphased by it all – and he seemed to know to refuse the bologna sandwiches when they were offered.

Rick checked his watch, relieved to find that it was time for a shift change. He wasn't sure how much more boredom he could take, sitting behind a desk watching a load of drunks sleep off their intoxication. He made a show of shuffling some papers, as if he had been keeping busy and not daydreaming.

"Any trouble from this lot?" a voice boomed, and Rick swung around in his seat to find his colleague Abraham arriving. At over six feet tall with a magnificent red beard, Rick wouldn't have messed with him even if he was the most hardened criminal.

"Good as gold," Rick smiled, standing up and stretching the stiffness out of his back. "Three snorers and one sleep-talker. "

"Just three?" Abraham replied in mock-horror. "Easy shift then, Grimes."

"And they're all yours now to release back into the wild," Rick slapped him on the back. "Left you half a cheese sandwich, too."

Abraham looked at the crumb-laden plate.

"I'm good," he shook his head.

Rick threw a final glance at the cell as surreptitiously as he could, where the men inside were rubbing their eyes, stretching creaking bones, and beginning to stand up in anticipation of getting out, where they would no doubt head straight back to a bar, or face the wrath of whatever girlfriend or wife was waiting at home for them. Dixon was still in the corner, but sitting up now, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles as he calmly waited. Rick found himself staring at him, until Dixon seemed to sense it, and met Rick's gaze before quickly looking down and fixing a bootlace than wasn't even undone.

In the dim, cramped staff locker room that smelt like stale socks and cheap aftershave, Rick removed his shirt quickly, wincing at the damp, old-deodorant smell of the underarms. He shoved the shirt and his trousers into a holdall, before pulling on too-loose blue jeans and a baggy white t-shirt that Lori had always hated. He wasn't fitting his clothes too well these days, needing more nutritious food than he had been eating lately, and some time back in the gym. You need to look after yourself properly after such a lucky escape, people had told him. He was trying, he really was.

Rick slammed his locker door shut, and, almost as an afterthought seeing as he was going straight home to shower, sprayed on more deodorant and ran fingers through his short curls before putting on some aviator sunglasses that he had long since stolen from Shane's car.

Walking out into the morning sunshine, Rick smelt hot pavement and cigarette smoke in the thick air. The noise of a cough made him look to his left, where he saw Dixon lighting up, then sliding a silver lighter into the back pocket of his scruffy grey jeans. Rick took a few steps towards his car, clenching and unclenching his fist as he tried to convince himself not to look back at the man. He wrinkled his nose as behind him he heard Dixon clear his throat, then a wet plop as he spat on the ground.

Rick turned around.

"You know, some of the guys would have something to say to you about spitting outside the station."

Dixon shoved a hand into his pocket and began to walk, cigarette dangling from thin, pale lips. He didn't respond at first, just took a drag that hollowed out his cheeks. As he blew out a long plume of blue-grey smoke, he stopped, then shrugged.

"An' what would you say?"

Rick shook his head tiredly. Why was he even conversing with this man?

"I've clocked off for the day, so..."

Dixon bit his lip, and Rick looked down at how his fingers were twitching. Dixon's fingernails were bitten down to nothing, and on the fleshy part below his thumb joint was a small black tattoo that was nothing more than a splodge of ink. Dixon wanted to say something, Rick knew that. Years as a cop had made him sensitive to such things, and he knew it was a skill he had - drawing confessions and statements out of people that might otherwise have been reluctant.

Something told him Dixon wouldn't be such an easy nut to crack.

"Keep your nose clean," Rick croaked out, immediately feeling foolish. He swung his holdall over his shoulder and began to walk towards his car.

"Hey," Dixon's voice rasped behind him.

Rick paused.

Dixon looked from side to side, clearly making sure that he and Rick were the only people outside. He leant towards Rick, close enough that Rick could see how his eyes were reddened from lack of sleep. Rick had expected him to smell of stale, sour alcohol – but he didn't. In the daylight, with some of the hair away from his eyes, Dixon looked younger than Rick had first thought, around the same age as him.

Dixon's voice was gruff enough to be barely audible as he spoke.

"How long ya been a bridge?" he asked.

Rick raised an eyebrow, letting his holdall drop onto the ground. His heart beat a little faster, not wanting to hear anything else that Dixon might say, but knowing that he had to stay and listen. The girl. It had something to do with the girl.

"...A what?" Rick asked, somewhat breathlessly.

"Ya know what I mean," Dixon stared at him, waiting for a response. "'Tween us an' them."

"I..."

Dixon made a pfft sound.

"Shoulda known better than ta... I mean, as if a fuckin' cop will listen..."

"The girl," Rick blurted out. "When I was driving, I..."

"Ya saw her," Dixon said, and Rick nodded.

"Why wouldn't I? She was right there, and..."

"But yer partner didn't." Dixon's tone was flat, matter-of-fact.

Rick's heart was thudding harder now, making him want to run to his car and drive straight home. The casual way Dixon was talking about it – as if it was normal – was somehow more un-nerving than if he found it as terrifyingly weird as Rick did.

"I'd had a long day, and I've not been well, and..." Rick babbled, but Dixon continued to stand stock still, quietly smoking, content to let Rick attempt to verbalise what he was thinking. Rick rubbed his forehead, wishing he'd just ignored Dixon. But his head – since he woke up in hospital...

Rick had only had one migraine in his life, and he had never forgotten the nausea, the vomiting, the almost burning-like pain that had torn across the left side of his head. But worse than that had been how his vision had made everything look fuzzy and jagged around the edges. Sometimes he saw people now who looked like that – except he hadn't had a headache to go along with it.

"Why?" was all Rick managed to say.

"Ain't no why or how," Dixon replied sharply. "Just is."

Dixon threw his cigarette down and pressed his heel down onto it, grinding it into the tarmac.

"But..." Rick began, before Dixon cut him short.

"I can't help ya," he snapped, barging past Rick and walking away.

Rick stood for a few moments, watching Dixon stride quickly into the distance. He was so tired, but the thought of going back to the house he had been renting offered no comfort. He wondered where Dixon was going; where he lived. There was no sign of anyone being there to meet him. Rick shook his head; it wasn't his responsibility to care about how the drunks got back home. The thing was, though, Dixon may have looked the type to be in there, but he didn't seem like it.

Rick made it to his car and got inside, swearing as he put his hand on his steering wheel, immediately pulling it away when he felt how hot the wheel was after the morning sun had beaten down onto his windscreen. He flipped the visor down, smiling sadly at the crumpled photograph of his son, now folded in half to conceal the half with Rick's ex-wife on it.

The local classic rock station was playing a Springsteen song from a couple of years back, and Rick tried to focus on it and let the music calm him the way it had always used to. Turning out of the parking lot, he looked up into the rear view mirror, braking sharply as for a split second he thought he saw a shadowy figure. He cursed out loud, feeling sweat immediately break out all over his body as somebody behind him tooted their horn angrily. Rick waved a hand in apology, rubbing his temple and realising that he needed to get some proper sleep for once. Too many night shifts and not enough time to recuperate properly, he told himself. It wasn't unusual for extreme tiredness and stress to make you think you were seeing things. Rick looked back up at the mirror, seeing nothing but an empty seat and the back window of the car. As he thought of Dixon in the back seat of his police car, Rick switched the radio off. Something about Bruce singing about Glory Days didn't quite suit his mood today.

=

There had been a shooting, and then a coma.

They'd told Rick that he might recover physically quicker than he recovered mentally. Thing was, for a good while after, he thought he was recovered. Truth be told, he didn't remember much about what had happened to him, so as far as he was concerned, there hadn't been much to recover from once the gunshot had healed. He was walking and talking and working again – what else could he ask for? He was fine. He was.

=

The short drive home was mercifully traffic-free; Rick's eyes darting between the road and the rear view mirror as it had the night before. His stomach audibly rumbled and he laughed to himself, rubbing his flat belly and wondering if he should stop at the local McDonalds for a coffee and pancakes. The thought lightened his mood as Rick began to daydream of a hot, sugary breakfast. He pressed down on the accelerator, hoping that the queue for the drive-through wouldn't be too bad, he was really starving now, and maybe he'd get a McMuffin too, fuck it, and...

Rick hit the brakes lightly as he approached a telephone pole that had a bunch of wilted, decaying flowers placed at its base. The pole itself was damaged about a third of the way up, exposing paler, splintered wood within. He had barely registered it when he saw a man beside it, swaying slightly from side to side.

"Mother. Fucker," Rick breathed lightly, recognising the drunken figure of Ed Peletier.

Ed was someone who had definitely been in the back of his police car before, on more than one occasion. If he wasn't drunk-driving, he was beating up his long-suffering wife. Carol, Rick remembered her name was. Grey hair cropped short, a pinched, worried face, and baggy, shapeless clothes that were clearly meant to hide her slim figure. Rick had dealt with drug dealers, thieves, even murderers – but he wasn't sure anyone ever made his blood boil in the way that abusive husbands like Ed Peletier did.

Rick toyed with the idea of slowing down and seeing if Ed was okay, but it was mid-morning and he was dog-tired. If Ed had gotten hammered enough to end up wandering along the roadside, then at least it would give Carol a little respite for once.

=

Before the coma, there had been a separation. After, there had been a divorce. Rick couldn't quite believe that life had taken him here; even now, months later, the plain gold wedding band remained on his finger, as if it had all been a terrible dream.

Everything from this year had seemed like a terrible dream.

Rick shivered as he unlocked the front door of the house he was renting and walked into the sparsely furnished lounge. A weeks' worth of the local paper was piled up on the kitchen table, along with junk mail and fast food menus. Rick tipped his head back, hearing his neck crack as he did so. He knew there was nothing to eat, but opened the fridge to peer inside regardless. Beers on the bottom shelf and a few tins of tuna on the top were the extent of it. As he slammed the fridge door shut, he saw a yellow post-it note stuck to the cupboard door beside.

Lasagna in oven. Heat at 350 for 20 mins.

Lori

PS. Get some furniture!!

Rick smiled gratefully, switching the oven on as he decided lasagna for breakfast was perfectly acceptable. He set a plate, knife and fork onto the table. The sight of the lone plate made him ache inside sadly, and he distracted himself with opening a beer and sitting down while he waited for the food to warm. Something about the smell of the beer and its sharp taste made him think of the bar the previous evening. About Dixon. About being – what had he said? A bridge.

Rick gulped the beer down quickly. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about any of that, but Dixon himself kept creeping into his mind. He had seen him angry and sneering, sure, but Shane could bring that side out in anyone. The Dixon Rick had spoken to in the parking lot had been different – brusque, but almost shy. Maybe there had even been the faintest hint of concern in his questions.

Rick wasn't a bridge, whatever that was. He wasn't anything. He had seen someone, they both had, but so what. Shane had probably been too busy mouthing off to see what he and Dixon had; Shane wasn't known for being particularly observant despite the career he had chosen.

The smell of garlic and rich tomatoey sauce filled the kitchen, and Rick looked around helplessly as he remembered that he'd not managed to buy some oven gloves yet. He tutted, bounding upstairs to the bathroom with the intention of using a bath towel to take the dish out of the oven.

Rick glanced at the mirrored cabinet on the bathroom wall, whipping around to look at the wall opposite when he saw a flash of something dark behind his head. Predictably, there was nothing there. He shook his head at his own stupidity – it was almost 10.30am; hardly the witching hour. Defiantly, he stared into the mirror, as if daring something to appear in it. He remembered teenage parties when he and his friends would play Bloody Mary, and he began to chant the words, once, twice, three times.

"Rick Grimes, you need to fucking sleep," he told his reflection, pulling the thin skin under an eye downward to expose a slightly bloodshot eyeball. He ran the faucet for a few seconds before splashing cold water over his face, and opened the cabinet to see if he had any headache pills left inside.

There were headache pills. A box of band-aids, too. Condoms (unopened). Aspirin. Antacids. All sitting inside the cabinet as tidily as Rick had placed them there.

Except now every bottle and box had been turned upside down.

Rick felt the blood pulsating in his head as he poked at the pills with his little finger tentatively, as if they were suddenly going to jump out at him if he so much as touched them. Nothing. Rapidly, he turned each item the correct way around and slammed the door shut, shutting his eyes as he did so. Something made him reluctant to look into the mirror.

He grabbed the towel, taking the stairs two at a time as he went back downstairs into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw that the oven wasn't on.

He had switched it on, he knew he had.

But then again, he was tired. Really tired.

He had smelt the food cooking, though. The kitchen had been heating up thanks to the oven, but now it felt colder than it should do for early summer.

Rick placed the back of his hand against the oven door. It was slightly warm. Deciding that the damn thing must be broken, Rick resolved to call the landlord the following day before his next shift.

He looked into the fridge again hopefully, as if its contents might have magically changed. Nothing.

Rick threw his empty bottle into the trash and plodded upstairs. He needed a shower, but that damn medicine cabinet... His mind was playing tricks on him again. Maybe his doctor could prescribe him some meds or something.

He went into his bedroom and undressed quickly, throwing his jeans and t-shirt onto the armchair. He was free to be as untidy as he liked now; somehow now that he had to pick up after himself, he realised why his messiness used to bug Lori so badly. The door creaked, and Rick kicked it shut, moving the handle up and down to make sure it was definitely closed.

As if it would make a difference to his mental state and the events of the day, Rick dutifully picked his clothes back up and folded them neatly, before switching off the lamp and gratefully climbing into bed naked. He lay on his back, running a hand across his protruding ribs, choosing not to let that hand wander further – he was dog fucking tired and freaked out. His mood was weird, though. Strange.

scrrrp scrrrp scrrrrp

A scratching noise, the same he'd been hearing most nights. Sometimes it sounded like branches scraping against the window, but tonight it sounded like it was coming from underneath the wooden floorboards in this very room.

How long ya been a bridge?

Rick pressed a fingertip into each ear.

=

Another evening shift. Another aimless drive after a stiflingly hot day. Rick hadn't slept much; trying to tell himself that what he was experiencing was all down to trauma. Maybe he should have taken up the offer of counselling. Maybe Abraham could give him some advice; he'd dealt with the loss of his wife a few years back after all, and...

"Tell me who Dixon is," Rick heard himself asking Shane. It was like the words had slipped out of his mouth without him even realising. He kept his eyes on the road as he steered and yawned, as if he had no interest in the answer.

Shane gave a sharp, dry laugh, then shook his head vigorously. He took an infuriatingly long sip from his soda before setting the cup down.

"Fuck, before we get into all of that, I can't believe I forgot to tell you before," Shane slapped his forehead. "Remember that asshole Ed Peletier? He got himself killed."

Rick's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. He didn't want to hear about that wife-beating prick. Not right now.

"Peletier?" Rick replied, thinking about how Ed had looked even more out of sorts than normal when he had seen him earlier that day. "Must have happened pretty suddenly, 'cause I just..."

"Sudden? Yeah, I'd say killing yourself in your own car 'cause you're all kinds of fucked up would make it all pretty damn sudden," Shane laughed coarsely, miming the action of sharply turning a steering wheel.

"What time did it happen?" Rick asked, beginning to feel uneasy. He thought of Ed, how his gaze had been vacant as he'd stood at the side of the road that morning. Normally when he was off on a drunken walkabout, he would be shouting at traffic; waving his fists to the sky; or even on his hands and knees vomiting on the pavement. Now that he thought about it, Ed hadn't seemed... all there.

"Time?" Shane queried. "I mean I don't know the specific time of day he splattered his own brains against a telephone pole, but I guess it happened about week or two after you got shot."

Rick gripped onto the steering wheel tighter to hide the tremors in his hands.

"Rick?" Shane said. "You want to hear about the Dixons now or not?"

Chapter Text

Morning walk/Visiting day/Being different/The trailer

Keep your nose clean, the cop had said as Daryl had left the station. Who the fuck did he think he was? Daryl had ended up in that shithole for what? Nothing, that was what. Some of the shit that was said and done in the Hilltop Bar, and he'd gotten put in the back of a cop car just for sticking up for himself and his brother after some tattooed asshole had been mouthing off.

He cursed under his breath, wishing he had someone to come get him. Instead, he had to walk back to the bar where he hoped his motorcycle would still be from the night before. It was already too warm, and he could feel sweat under his arms and in the small of his back, amongst other places. A cold beer would go down a treat right now, even if it was the morning. It's not like he would stink any more than the type of people who would already be in the bar boozing at this time of day.

What would the cop be doing, he found himself wondering. Certainly not contemplating having a drink. Probably going home to a cooked breakfast, or his local gym, or taking his kids to school. Fuck him, Daryl thought. So what if they'd both seen the girl. Daryl saw her all the fucking time now, so maybe she was getting so strong that even the likes of that cop was noticing her too.

His partner hadn't, though, a voice inside Daryl said. Hadn't seen the ghoulish expression, or open mouth, or pale outstretched arms and hands and fingers. Like they were clawing at nothing – or trying to pinch and grab.

He'd first seen her the day after it had happened. Wondered who she was, why she'd chosen him. She'd been in a bad state at first; confused, thinking she was still part of this world. Most of them were like that. They tried to talk, but found that no-one could hear them; tried to eat and sleep and touch, but they couldn't.

Now she was getting more persistent, it seemed. Daryl knew what she wanted, but he couldn't fucking help her. He couldn't. Of all the people to choose, she had fucked up by asking him.

He'd never wanted to be a bridge between this world and theirs.

That cop had no fucking idea what he was, Daryl considered as he finally walked into the parking lot of the bar, grateful to see his bike was still there, and intact. Poor fucker had seemed terrified, and Daryl remembered that feeling. The confusion, the denial, the paranoia that you were going mad.

Maybe if he hadn't been a cop, Daryl might have been more sympathetic. Maybe he'd have explained things better instead of walking away; leaving the cop standing there, slightly hang-dog and haggard looking. Gaunt-faced, and with his clothes hanging off him. Then again, he'd said he'd not been well.

The cop could have given him way more shit, but he hadn't, Daryl mused. Not in the bar, or on the ride to the station, or in the drunk tank. Some of those assholes would taunt you, go out of their way to make your life a misery; make you remember how they were so much better than you were. His partner, the swarthy one, now he looked the kind to do that, but not the other cop.

Fuck it, Daryl didn't care about him, or any of it. He wanted to go home and go to sleep.

Then he remembered it was visiting day.

=

Ten years his senior, Daryl's brother Merle had always been destined to end up in prison. He'd led a life of fighting, drug-dealing, and stealing. Stealing anything he could get his hands on – cars, money, valuables from people's homes, even a boat once. Daryl had been there for a lot of his escapades, keeping watch or trying to persuade Merle to go do something else instead. It never worked. Merle said jump, and he'd say how high. Even now.

For a long time now, he and Merle had been all each other had. Both their moms gone, and the daddy they had shared, too. So it was up to him to show up every week without fail, show Merle that somebody cared, tell Merle that he believed him.

Daryl hated coming to the grey, imposing building only slightly less than he hated feeling guilty about not coming. He wasn't even the one in prison, had never been in prison – not properly, anyway – and yet he felt like some of the inmates were judging him as he walked to the table where Merle was waiting for him.

The visiting room stank. Sweat, cooking smells, and bad hygiene. Compared to this hell hole, Daryl's night in the drunk tank seemed like paradise.

In the weirdest way, Merle suited prison. Here, he was someone. Outside, he was nothing – just like Daryl. A piece of shit on someone's shoe. Everyone's - the girl that served him coffee; the gas station attendant; those fucking cops from the night before.

Merle sat back as Daryl approached his table, looking him up and down. Even in prison Merle had the cocky self-confidence he always had, his muscles filling out the cheap white uniform he was wearing. As Daryl sat down, he felt like he was the one that had done wrong, and that Merle was about to start bawling him out, like he always had.

Daryl looked around at the guards in each corner of the room. They were all stern-faced, their eyes darting around the room to make sure there was no trouble. Usually Daryl ignored them, didn't like to look directly at them, but today all he could focus on how their shirts were the same piss-beige color of the cops shirts.

"Ya look like shit," Merle chastised. "Yer meant ta be the pretty one an' ya look worse than some of the people in here."

Daryl glared back. Merle was balding, with a weatherbeaten, heavily lined face. His lips were so thin as to be almost non-existent, and his eyes were narrow and suspicious. Daryl could see their father when he looked at Merle – but he could see himself in a decade or so, too, if he took the same path of cheap drugs and petty crime.

Not that Merle was in here for petty crime this time.

Merle sucked at his teeth, that smacking noise that Daryl hated because their daddy used to do it too.

"Hope yer takin' good care of my trailer."

Daryl nodded, thinking how he was too scared to tell Merle that he'd cleared out most of his shit – the old porn magazines under the mattress, the calendar from the 1970s with the naked blonde chick on the front, the bags of that new crystal meth. The trailer had been there since Merle had gotten out of juvie all those years ago, when he couldn't face going back to the house with their daddy. Now Daryl was just staying there so he was close enough to visit Merle.

"'Course I am, Merle."

Merle drummed his fingers on the table, looking Daryl up and down, making him feel small. Daryl loved him, but his brother was an asshole. There was nothing more he wanted in life than to impress Merle, make him proud, but sometimes he wondered why. Maybe because Merle was all Daryl had ever had. His mom had died when he was young and their daddy hadn't been worth a damn.

"Ya behavin' yerself?" Merle asked.

Daryl swallowed; nodded.

"Gettin' by, doin' this and that."

Merle scoffed. He had never worked a day in his life, unless thieving and selling drugs counted as work. Daryl fought against that life with all his being; he knew how easy it would be to go down that path. When Merle was out of prison, he knew he could fall into that lifestyle. Maybe no matter how hard he tried, he would anyway.

Merle's eyes narrowed and he leant in close to Daryl's face. His breath smelt like stale coffee.

"An' are ya behavin' about other things, little bro? 'Cause ya know I don't want any brother of mine ta..."

"I know," Daryl interrupted, looking around nervously in case a guard or fellow prisoner was listening. "I'm behavin', Merle. Swear."

He had been behaving. All that was over, the things he'd done. The things Merle had seen him do. It was just... sometimes it all got to be too much. Sometimes he felt he would go out of his mind if he didn't.

There was silence. On the outside, Merle chatted shit constantly about nothing at all. Who they were going to rob from, who owed him money, how fucked up he'd been the night before. In here, Daryl realised that his brother wasn't given to making normal conversation. If he couldn't speak about his wheeling-dealing lifestyle, Merle had fuck all to say.

"Ya look like shit," Merle told him for the second time. Daryl shrugged, bit his thumbnail. All his life he'd never been sure of how to respond to the things Merle said. He always second-guessed himself, trying not to elicit a response from Merle that would be unbridled anger or sneering sarcasm.

At least his run-in with the cop would give them something to talk about.

"Spent the night in the drunk tank," he admitted, waiting for Merle to mock him; make him feel like shit about it like he did everything else.

For the first time, Merle looked vaguely impressed. He sat back, crossing his arms, waiting for an entertaining story.

"What did ya do?" he sighed indulgently.

Daryl shrugged again.

"Nothin'. Was out drinkin' an' got inta a fight with some asshole. Scorpion tattoo. Ya know him?"

Merle sucked his teeth again as he thought.

"Coulda been anyone, I'm a well-known guy. A local celebrity, ya might say." He tipped his chair so far back that Daryl wondered what would happen if he fell on his ass. "

"He was sayin' shit about ya," Daryl continued, remembering how he'd been about to smash the guy's face in until those damn cops had appeared. "About ya bein' in here."

"Oh yeah, like what?" Merle's tone turned cold.

Daryl squeezed his hands together under the table. Talking to Merle was like walking on eggshells; like tip-toeing over an ice-covered lake. One wrong move, and -

"Ya know what."

Merle's face dropped; his expression turning into the dark one that always sent chills down Daryl's spine. He sat forward as he hissed out a reply.

"He sayin' I did it? He sayin' I'm guilty? The whole bar, huh? They all sayin' that it's right that Merle Dixon is in here, pissin' and shittin' in front of dozens of other men every day? Eatin' worse than a dog an' sharin' a cell with someone who killed their grandma, huh? That what he was sayin'?"

Daryl didn't reply. He didn't like to tell Merle that yeah, that was pretty much the jist.

"I didn't fuckin' do it, ya hear," Merle spat.

"I know, Merle. I know ya didn't."

"Well make sure ya tell anyone that says otherwise that the second I get out of this shithole, I'll be havin' words with them. Yer not lettin' people get away with talkin' shit about me, are ya?"

"No Merle, 'course I ain't."

"Hm," Merle grunted. "'Cause ya know why I'm sittin' here now, don't ya? 'Cause the cops want an easy fuckin' life. They so much as get a sniff that I might be involved an' case closed. Ya think they investigated it properly? Ya think they worked the crime scene like they should? 'Cause they didn't, Daryl. If they had, I wouldn't be sittin' here. I didn't fuckin' do it."

"We shouldn't be talkin' about it in here," Daryl whispered, looking around to see if anyone was listening in. Nothing Merle was saying was untrue, but he knew the guards wouldn't appreciate that kind of talk.

"Pfft, if yer scared of the guards in here, I'm surprised a girl like you made it through a night in the drunk tank," Merle eventually drawled.

"Wasn't so bad," Daryl replied. He'd gotten some sleep, kept himself to himself. The other guys had left him alone anyway, he was pretty sure some of them knew what his surname was. And that generally made people keep away. Most attention he'd gotten had been the times he'd seen that cop looking at him from behind his desk. And sometimes Daryl had looked at him, when the cop had been pretending to eat his shitty sandwich.

"Bet the cops were fuckin' assholes ta ya, right?" Merle sneered. "Once they heard yer surname. So who was it? Know every prick from that station an' they all think that the Dixons crawled out from under a rock."

Daryl busied himself with pulling at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans.

"Can't remember their names. One of 'em had dark hair an' eyes. Nose looked like it'd been broken once or twice."

Merle smiled.

"Oh I know that one. Walsh, ya call him. Think he's some hot shit, but he's all mouth." Merle pointed, licked his lips. "Who was his partner? Was it Grimes?"

Daryl sucked his cheeks in.

"I dunno, Merle, I..."

"Blue eyes, walks bow-legged," Merle suggested, and Daryl blanched.

"Think so."

Daryl knew so.

Merle cackled.

"Well, well, well." He paused. "Now listen ta me, little bro. Ya ever get yerself inta trouble? Watch out fer Grimes, 'cause Walsh, his partner, he comes across like a hard-ass but let me tell ya, Grimes is cold as ice. Ain't no-one gettin' away with anythin' when he's involved. I'm promisin' ya. Cold as ice."

"Don't plan on gettin' myself inta trouble."

"Pfft," Merle scoffed. "Well no Dixon tries to get inta trouble. Jus' happens. 'Specially if Grimes is back on the scene."

"Back?"

"Oh yes. Asshole got himself shot jus' before I ended up in here. It's just a damn shame they didn't do it well enough to put that cold bastard down completely." Merle raised an eyebrow. "The miracle of modern medicine, Daryl. Ain't it wonderful."

Daryl thought about the cop's loose clothes and hollow cheeks. He wondered how quickly he had come back to work; it sure didn't look like he had taken much time off. Daryl felt an odd sense of admiration – the cop must be a machine to go through that and then work a double shift watching over drunken assholes like him.

Merle was still railing on about him.

"See, cops like him, they act like they understood ya, like they're yer buddy – but inside they think yer worth less than the shit on their shoe. Yeah, they talk about rehabilitation and childhood fuckin' traumas – but when it comes down to it, brother, all these assholes want to do is wash their hands off ya an' go home to their stupid naggin' wives an' snotty-nosed kids."

Daryl's fingers began to twitch with the need for a cigarette. The drunk tank and the cop and seeing Merle, it was all too much.

"Childhood fuckin' traumas," Merle repeated, and Daryl closed his eyes momentarily. Please God not this. Not today.

"Merle..."

"Ya been ta the house lately?" Merle asked.

"No," Daryl replied, so sharply that Merle's brow furrowed. No, he fucking hadn't. "Ain't had no need ta be there."

"Guilt got too much fer ya, huh?" Merle smiled and gave a metallic-sounding laugh.

Never.

"'S like I said," Daryl sniffed, his own foul Dixon temper beginning to rise within him. One day Merle would get the brunt of it, and he'd be sorry. "I ain't had no need."

He would never go back to that house. The house where he and Merle had been whipped and beaten all of their lives. Him more, once Merle had gotten away from it all. Then, Daryl had been punished for the both of them. Belts, fists, broken beer bottles, even boiling water one time. Even thinking about it made the scars on his back and ass and thighs feel like they had re-opened, seeping their nasty blood and poison through his clothes and his mind.

Was it any wonder that of Will Dixon's two sons, one was in prison and the other was a loner, after the dysfunctional, violent childhood he had given them? It was surprising that neither he nor Merle was dead. They both had the same filthy tempers, the same resentment of any authority, the same tendency to get themselves into trouble. Will Dixon - alcoholic, child-beater, womaniser, drug and moonshine-dealer. If Daryl could have gotten away with spitting on the floor as he thought about him, he would have.

"Five minutes," a guard called out, and women and children around them began to hug and kiss the people they were visiting. Merle rolled his eyes as he looked at them. Daryl didn't dare embrace his brother; neither of them were the type and Daryl's childhood had seen to it that more often than not, he flinched away from physical contact.

"So I'll see ya in two weeks?"

Merle nodded.

"I doubt ya'll have anythin' better ta do, Darlene."

=

Daryl always felt exhausted after visiting Merle. Exhausted and well, like shit. The way Merle treated him, talked at him and not to him, made him remember why he had left Atlanta for further South in the state a couple of years ago. Just him and his bike, taking work where he could get it, living on cup noodles and cheap, shitty beer. It had been hard but simple; easier.

Merle didn't get him, didn't care about him in the way that he said he did. He'd never liked that Daryl was different, in any of the ways that Daryl was different. He chose to ignore it. Daryl didn't know if it was because Merle was scared or jealous.

Some people were just born seeing and feeling the things Daryl did. He had been born that way – him and his mom's half-sister, he'd been told, although he'd never met her. Didn't know where she lived, or even if she was still alive. He just knew that she'd been seen as the family oddball, and hadn't he just been the one to carry on that part of his mom's family. Half-oddball, half-Dixon, what a combination.

When he'd been young, he'd thought that it was Merle playing tricks on him – whispering his name in the dark, moving shit in his room. And sometimes it had been. But then when Daryl was eight or nine, he'd come home from the woods to find his bed full of stones and twigs. His daddy had been off on a bender for three days with some waitress, and Merle had been in juvie. The same thing happened the day after, and the next. Eventually Daryl had shouted a thank you into the air, placed them into an old jar on the nightstand, and it had stopped. You just had to treat them right, was all.

The woods were full of them. And not just ones from this time, either. There'd been a little Cherokee boy, once, cold and scared. Daryl hadn't been much older than him at the time, but they'd huddled under a tree together while a storm passed. Go North along the creek an' ya'll find yer people, Daryl had told him, remembering a history book he had read on one of the rare years when he'd been at school regularly. Daryl had watched the boy walk off until he was too far into the distance to see, and the next day the only sign he had been there were a trail of white roses scattered across the ground.

It didn't matter that Daryl had spent the past few years closer to Savannah, supposedly the country's most haunted city. They bothered him no matter where he went, and at least in Savannah, most of them were old, so old that they didn't even register what he was, and were past the point of wanting or needing something from him. Civil War ghosts underneath Spanish moss were nothing compared to the likes of the girl, standing in the middle of the fucking road in the middle of the night.

He would never tell Merle about the girl. Merle would mock him, or worse, get so angry that he'd make a scene in the middle of the visiting room.

=

Merle's trailer was cramped but comfortable. It had a kitchenette, a little pull-down plastic table, and a bed that just about passed for a double. Daryl didn't want for anything more than that. He'd boxed up most of Merle's shit when he'd taken over the trailer, cleaned it up as best he could, put new sheets and blankets on the bed. He sure as fuck didn't want to sleep on the bedding where Merle had fucked the girls he'd always paid for.

The glasses in the cupboard had smashed again. Daryl decided not to replace them this time; at least he must have been out when it happened, and not asleep in bed. That had happened before, the noise not so much scaring him, as pissing him off for waking him up. Anyway, glasses were better than lightbulbs. They really were a fucking pain in the ass to keep replacing. Besides, he didn't have much use for glasses when he always drank beer, and that didn't stay in the bottles long enough to matter if they smashed.

Daryl sat down to a meagre meal of chicken soup and bread that had last been good three days ago, and moved the thin yellow curtain that covered the small window so he could peer out at the surrounding woods. He liked the quiet; something that he had never gotten when Merle was around. He wasn't one for visitors and he didn't listen to music much either. He had cigarettes and books for company, and he was content with that. Maybe a dog would have been nice, or any animal really, but Daryl hadn't put down roots long enough anywhere to have one.

He stood up, rinsing his bowl under tepid water and setting some coffee on to brew. He sat back down, looking at the unopened pack of cigarettes on the table. He had just picked up his lighter when the thick, cloying smell of smoke filled the air. Virginia Slims, he knew that much. He always smelt them when something big was going to happen, or had happened. Something significant. He wondered what it would be this time.

"Hey," Daryl said to thin air. "Ya ain't been around in a while."

A plume of bluish cigarette smoke billowed in front of Daryl's face before disappearing just as he tried to poke a finger through its middle. The smell vanished too, but in the morning, Daryl knew he would find cigarette butts that weren't his littering outside the trailer door.

He lit up himself, thinking about money. Hadn't been a lie, telling Merle he got irregular work, but that hadn't been the full story.

He took a long drag as he dialled a number, shutting one eye in a wince as he heard a woman answer.

"Classifieds."

"Er yeah, I um... gotta advert in yer paper. Want ta keep it in there fer another while."

"One week or longer, sir?"

"Um... longer. Another month. Nah, two."

"Name?"

"Daryl Dixon."

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek as he heard the tapping of a keyboard. The woman was chewing gum, too, and the wet smacking noise irritated him. He was close to hanging up when her scratchy voice came down the line.

"This you? Medium for -"

"Yeah, yeah, that's me. Can ya just send me the bill. Ya have my details there."

The woman sighed as if it was a massive inconvenience to her to do her job, and Daryl said a curt goodbye before hanging up.

He hated advertising his services that way. He didn't go out of his way to speak to people who had passed; he was a bridge, was all. But there were too many sad, lonely people in the world who needed to hear that a loved one was in some magical, better place, or were sticking around to look over them. People looked for white feathers, thinking – mistakenly – that a husband or grandma was their guardian angel now. It wasn't like that at all.

Daryl just told them it was because they were willing to pay anything to hear it; to have their beliefs validated.

Sometimes, he did see or hear the person he'd been hired to speak to. On more than one occasion, they had been angry, wanting Daryl to tell the living person all manner of vile, vengeful things. He never would. Most of the time, he picked up nothing. Instead, he had stock phrases that he always used. She's in a better place now. He looks so healthy, like he did before the illness. Your little grand-daughter didn't suffer, it was quick, don't worry. They loved you very much.

Man, he could pretend that he wasn't as much of a criminal as Merle all he wanted, but he was robbing the folks he went to see. Lying to them, eating their food – because free meals were another reason he did this – then taking their money and pretending not to notice the grateful tears in their eyes as they thanked him for helping their dead loved ones find peace.

There was no peace to be found in either this world, or the next, Daryl had come to believe.

The girl had no peace, that was for sure.

The cop's eyes in the rear view mirror as they had looked back at him had been wide, alarmed. Daryl didn't like seeing the girl, but it had almost been worth it to see the cop's asshole partner nearly go through the windscreen when the cop had slammed on the brakes. Grimes, Merle had said his name was. Grimes. Grimes who was cold as ice, apparently. Daryl stubbed out his cigarette and huffed a laugh. There hadn't been anything cold about his reaction to what he'd seen. Panicked, yes. Confused. But not cold.

Outside the station, Grimes had spoken to him like he was a human being. He wasn't used to that with other cops. But like he kept thinking, guys like him acted all nice only when they wanted something.

They'd been the same height.

Grimes's clothes had been a little too big for him but his jawline was strong. Blue eyes, similar colour to his own; less grey, maybe.

Fuck Grimes. Cops were all the same. All the fucking same.

No-one had helped Daryl when he'd started seeing shit. So it wasn't like he ever had to return the favor. You had to figure it all out on your own, like he had.

He sat back, scratching the back of his head, agitated. He stood up, pressing his hands against the wall of the trailer to stretch his arms out, groaning as his bones cracked and his muscles ached. Fuck, seeing Merle always had him like this. Pissed off and worried, angry and wanting to help his brother but not knowing where to begin. Guilty because maybe he should be making more of an effort. But who would help a Dixon?

Sometimes in this stiflingly hot, musty old trailer, Daryl felt like he might explode. He thought about going back out on his motorcycle, but he remembered his empty wallet and the fact that he was low on gas after the ride to the prison and back. He needed to do something to get rid of this feeling. If not a ride, then a bottle of bourbon that would burn and sting his mouth and throat, or a fight that would make him draw blood and taste blood too – or...

Ya behavin' yerself? Merle had asked.

Yeah, he had been behaving himself in the way Merle meant, because he had no other fucking choice.

The bed creaked as he sat down to take his boots off and lay back. He stared up at the roof of the trailer, its patches of rust getting worse. But the bed was as comfortable as any Daryl had ever laid on, and he felt his eyes beginning to close as he let his thoughts take him to places that Merle had always warned him about.

The cop hadn't laid a finger on him, but Merle sure thought that he was bad news. Cold as ice, he had said. Cold enough to have arrested him right on the spot? Daryl wondered. He imagined the front of his thighs pressing against the hood of a car, his hands behind his back, the clinking noise of metal against his wrists. He unzipped his jeans, his mouth opening in a silent sigh. In his mind, his rights were being hissed into his ear, his body being pushed roughly against the hood. Do you understand, well, do you? Daryl let out a small moan as he pulled his dick from his pants, thick and heavy in his large hands. You're in trouble, Dixon. You've no idea how much trouble you're in. Then an empty jail cell in the dark, somewhere isolated, somewhere they shouldn't be. Somewhere wrong. A cold sheriff's badge pressing against his bare skin and the scratch of facial hair against his shoulder. Teeth grazing and parted legs, burning inside, fire and ice all at the same time. Daryl spat in his hand. Soft smacking noises and louder moans. That cop with the blue eyes, he's cold as ice. Release.

Daryl lay there panting, immediately ashamed, wiping his stomach with an old t-shirt and throwing it onto the floor. Self-disgust was an old friend; one that visited him frequently. Especially when his thoughts led him in the way he had. But it meant nothing, was just a reaction to the weird as fuck experience of he and the cop both seeing the girl. He wouldn't do it again.

He arched his back, zipping his jeans back up. He'd have a smoke, then maybe go for a walk in the woods. He'd done that so often since living in the trailer that he knew all the dead ones that were in there. They didn't care about him seeing them, they'd all been in there for so long. A guy whose buddy had accidentally shot him when they were out hunting. A teenage boy who'd hung himself. An old lady with dementia who'd wandered off and drowned. Now that one had upset Daryl, the first time he had seen her. Now he looked at her fondly when their paths crossed; guiding her in the right direction if she was heading towards the same body of water where she had died.

Daryl found the dead easier to deal with than the living.

He got back onto his feet, splashing water onto his hands and face after taking a piss. Looking into the cloudy bathroom mirror, he understood why Merle had told him that he looked like shit. His brother hadn't been lying. Daryl looked away quickly, his reflection never pleased him.

The knock at the trailer door was light but purposeful.

"Fuck off!" Daryl hollered. He didn't get, or want visitors, so whoever it was couldn't be good news.

The next knock was harder, more insistent. Daryl turned the faucet off irritably and grabbed the door handle, flinging it open.

"What?"

He took a step back, seeing the cop standing there. For a split second Daryl thought he was being taken back to the station, but then he realised the cop wasn't in his uniform and his expression was earnest.

"What do ya want?" Daryl asked suspiciously.

The cop – Grimes, Daryl remembered - looked down almost shyly before looking back up. There was a determined look in his eyes now; maybe even that coldness that Merle had spoken about.

"I need you to help me," he said.

Chapter Text

Off the record/Ashtray

Rick saw how Dixon's fingers were gripped tight around the door handle of his trailer, ready to slam it shut. Yet, he didn't. The door remained open, Dixon's eyes narrowed, visibly tense as if he was an animal coming face to face with a predator. Rick stayed standing at the bottom of the small steps that led up into the trailer, determined that he wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted.

He wanted – needed – to speak to somebody that he knew had experienced the same things he had.

Dixon licked his thin lips quickly, an unreadable expression on his flushed face. It wasn't fear or anger that made his face that colour, Rick guessed. It was irritation mixed with something that Rick couldn't help thinking was embarrassment. Rick was under no illusion that Dixon maybe wasn't always on the right side of the law, and wondered if perhaps there was something inside the old, ramshackle trailer that he didn't want Rick to see.

"This is nothing to do with police work, or any crime," Rick offered, hoping that Dixon would believe him. "Strictly off the record. Personal," he added quietly, wondering why that sounded so weird. Then again, they didn't know one other. All they had was a shared moment of oddness that Rick hadn't stopped thinking about since.

He watched Dixon's feet, how they shifted backward slightly as if he was about to relent. Rick had negotiated with countless criminals over the years – not that he believed Dixon was one – and he had gotten used to reading their body language; the slightest nuances that showed his calm persuasion was getting through to them. He gave a small smile and watched as Dixon's grip on the door handle loosened.

The door opened wider and then Dixon was clearing his throat and rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffed.

"How'd ya find out where I live?"

"Not hard to find out in my line of work," Rick explained.

"C'mon, then," Dixon grunted. "Five minutes is all yer gettin'."

He turned his back and Rick walked up the steps and into the trailer. The yellow and orange of the interior, along with the cheap wood cabinets and smell of cigarettes made him think of friend's homes he'd go to after school when he was a kid. Aside from smoke, there were food smells and something deeper; something more earthy and human. He lingered in the middle of the floor, waiting for an invitation to sit down. When none came, he sat down at the small table anyway, watching as Dixon sat down opposite, lighting a cigarette. Rick was conscious that their knees were almost touching underneath the table.

"So what do ya want, Officer?" Dixon rasped, leaning back and taking a long drag, head tilted back and chin jutting out.

"You don't need to call me that," Rick replied quickly, watching the way Dixon's thick index finger and thumb pinched the end of the cigarette as he smoked. "I told you, this isn't a work call. My name's Rick. Rick Grimes."

Dixon's face remained impassive. Rick got it; if the roles were reversed, he knew he wouldn't have been forthcoming either. He was a guarded person, usually only saying what really needed to be said. He guessed that Dixon was the same.

"Ya want an introduction?" Dixon eventually said. "Ya know my name from when ya threw me in the fuckin' drunk tank. It's Daryl. Ain't no point sayin' my surname, I'm sure yer familiar enough with it."

Rick gave a small nod, somewhat impressed by the glaring defiance on Dixon – Daryl's – face.

"Yeah I know it," Rick admitted. "I'm not going to pretend that I don't. But I've not judged you for it – I have no reason to - so I'd appreciate it if you didn't judge me because of my job." He watched Daryl stub out his cigarette. "I feel like we have more important things to talk about than any perceived grievance, so..."

"Ya want a coffee?" Daryl interrupted with a grunt. "If ya don't, ya'll have ta wait 'til I make one fer myself."

"Sure." Rick watched as Daryl stood up and messily and noisily began to make it. With Daryl's back to him, Rick was able to take in his surroundings a little better. The trailer was old and outdated, but comfortable enough. The bed didn't look like it had been made, or else it had been recently laid on, but it appeared cosy, with a red and white checkered blanket on it and several pillows. Rick found himself staring at it for a little too long, before turning his attention back to the kitchenette. He wasn't one to feel the need to always fill a silence, but the air felt heavy with how quiet it was.

"You not got any cups that aren't paper?" he tried to joke, watching as Daryl poured the coffee into two of the small white tumblers. It seemed to fall flat, and Daryl wordlessly slammed Rick's coffee down onto the table so hard that some of it spilt over the sides. Rick swiped at the liquid with a finger and wondered what he'd said that was out of place.

"Shit like that doesn't last long in here," Daryl eventually snapped back, sitting down and taking a gulp. Rick blew on the steaming hot coffee, wondering how Daryl's mouth wasn't scalded.

"This is good," Rick said gently as he took a tentative sip.

Daryl set his cup down, crossing his arms and glaring at Rick with an irritated sigh.

"Well c'mon then. Ask. Ain't got all day."

Rick avoided meeting Daryl's eyes, trying not to look at the other man's face. He wasn't sure why it made him feel uncomfortable to do so. Maybe because it reminded him of their eyes meeting in the rear view mirror of the car. All he knew was that he had remembered that look so well that he was fairly sure he could have drawn Daryl's face from memory. A tired face, one that had been lived in. But strange too; a face that Rick wasn't sure could ever possibly look like anyone else's.

Rick's voice was hoarse as he spoke, trying desperately not to poke and peel at the cup; it didn't look like Daryl had any others.

"What did we see on the road?" he momentarily squeezed his eyes shut, both wanting and not wanting an explanation.

Daryl turned his lighter over in his hand, the silver smoothed down, presumably from years of doing just that.

"Ya know," Daryl replied firmly. His voice was low and his eyes little more than slits. "We seen the girl."

"The girl?" Rick raised an eyebrow at how Daryl had phrased it, but that wasn't the most pressing question on his mind. "And was she... I mean, she wasn't real, was she?"

Clearly ignoring the hope in Rick's voice, Daryl looked almost regretful as he shook his head.

"Not like you an' me are real," he replied. "C'mon man, why ya askin' when ya know damn well what the answer is."

Rick felt chilled to the bone. Daryl seemed calm. No, not calm – resigned, more like. Something about his weary response made Rick wonder if Daryl had been dealing with the things he had just begun experiencing for years.

"Who is she?" Rick asked, remembering greasy, long dark hair and a haunted expression. Not that 'haunted' was a word he wanted to think about.

Daryl looked suspicious, his eyes narrow as he spoke slowly.

"As if ya don't know. Yer a fuckin' cop." His tone was slightly bitter.

Rick cocked his head to the side, thinking about what Shane had told him when he'd begun talking about the Dixons.

"What?" Daryl asked.

Rick took a deep breath.

"I've only been back on the job for a couple of weeks," he began, his hand automatically drifting to the side of his ribs. "Missed a lot of shit. So whatever you think I know... well, I probably don't."

"Ya been sick or somethin'?" Rick noted the slight interest in Daryl's voice.

"Something," Rick laughed wryly, wondering why he was opening up to this stranger. "I got shot by a suspect on the run while me and my partner were out on patrol." He paused, the memory painful. "I was in a coma."

Rick felt Daryl's eyes upon him, feeling for some reason like Daryl already knew. Rick grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it upwards to expose the side of his body where the gunshot scar was, the skin there still raised and reddened. Daryl's eyes quickly darted back to the lighter in his hands, and he cleared his throat once Rick had tugged his t-shirt back down, his face burning at what he'd done.

Daryl's voice sounded tighter as he spoke once more.

"The girl we saw – they found her behind a dumpster at that old liquor store at the end of I-85. She was stabbed, an'..." Daryl lit another cigarette, smoking instead of finishing his sentence.

Rick didn't dare mention to Daryl what he was thinking; something Shane had told him racing through his mind. You remember Merle Dixon, don't you? Methed-out redneck piece of crap, always up to some illegal shit. This time he's gotten himself in prison over the death of some girl. Good riddance, am I right?

"Ya know somethin' about it, don't ya?" Daryl asked, standing up and leaning against the kitchen cabinets. He held his arms close against his body, as if he was shielding himself.

Rick paused, guessing that Daryl might be volatile unless he chose his words carefully.

"Not much," Rick replied slowly. "I heard that somebody was in prison. I'm guessing that she was the victim."

"An' my brother Merle is the one doin' time fer it," Daryl said sharply. "It's alright, ya can say so if that's what ya heard."

"I haven't heard the whole story, I promise," Rick said truthfully as he held a hand up, relieved when Daryl sat back down in front of him.

"There ain't no story to tell," Daryl shrugged, sitting back down. "Merle was arrested an' now he's locked up fer it – an'..." Daryl scratched the back of his head, agitated, making the dishevelled dark mess that was his hair look even more unruly.

"And what?"

"An' now she's fuckin' botherin' me." Daryl threw his arm up.

"And me, apparently," Rick laughed harshly, then paused before speaking tentatively. "...Will you tell me what happened to her, Daryl?" Rick was aware that that was the first time he had said Daryl's name, and it stuck in his throat, made his tongue feel fuzzy.

"That ain't the deal," Daryl warned, wagging a finger. "I ain't goin' ta sit here an' answer a million questions on every fuckin' topic that springs inta yer mind. Ya saw the girl that was killed an' so did I, but I ain't goin' ta talk about how she died or what happened, 'cause I don't know jack shit about that. If ya been seein' shit when ya never have before, I'll tell ya what I think, nothin' more an' nothin' less." Daryl sat back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Then tell me," Rick said firmly, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. "I need to know I'm not going crazy." He looked down at his hands, twirling the wedding band that he still wore around his finger anxiously.

Daryl cocked his head to the side, lips pursed. His expression relaxed as he looked at Rick.

"Ya ain't always bin like this, have ya?" he asked quietly.

"No. Christ, no. Have you?" Rick rubbed his forehead.

Daryl shrugged.

"Guess so. Some people live with diseases or disabilities or some shit an' are used ta it. I'm used ta this."

"I just want to know why me, why now." Rick felt the weight of the past few months pressing down on him; all those things that he had kept to himself, because who on earth would believe him? Except for this man sitting opposite; someone he only met because they were at the opposite ends of society.

"Did ya nearly die? When ya were shot?" Daryl chewed his bottom lip, thinking.

"Was touch and go during my surgery, they told me." Rick was sick to death of being told that. It could have gone either way, Rick. Touch and go. But we knew you were a fighter.

"An' then ya were in the coma."

"Yes."

"Ya see anythin' freaky when ya were under?" Daryl rubbed the sparse beard on his chin.

"I don't remember, Daryl. Are you saying that's what caused this?" Suddenly Rick wasn't sure he wanted to continue with the conversation. The implications of what he thought Daryl was suggesting was just...

"Hell, it ain't an exact science," Daryl scratched his forehead; Rick noticing a large scar there. "But if ya were hoverin' somewhere between life an' death, then ya were somewhere between us an' them'. An' ya became a bridge."

"You said that word to me before," Rick said, making to twist the ring on his finger once more, before he noticed Daryl's eyes glance at his hands, and stopped.

"Jus' a word I use," Daryl replied. "Can't think of any other word ta describe it. It ain't got a name anyway. Bridge, conduit, whatever."

"Conduit?"

"Yeah. Con-du-it," Daryl snapped. "What, ya think a hick like me doesn't know words like that, huh?"

Rick stifled a smile.

"I think you know more than most people, Daryl. I mean, I'm getting that impression."

Something in Daryl's expression warmed, and again Rick bit down a smile. He didn't think he was imagining that there were the beginnings of rapport there, but Dixon seemed like his moods might change with the wind.

"The thing I don't understand," Rick began, "Well, one of the many, is why she looked so real. She looked like a normal person."

"They ain't see-through like in the movies, not at first anyway," Daryl replied. "They just seem a bit... lost, slowed down." He mimed picking up a telephone. "Ya ever get woken up in the middle of the night with a phone call? For those first few seconds, ya don't know where ya are or what's happenin'. Well, I think the new ones feel like that all the time, 'til they learn what they are. The girl ain't been gone long enough, maybe. Or maybe how she died means it'll take her a little longer to figure it out."

"So they're disoriented?" Why did Rick feel like he was thrashing out a case with a partner?

"Yeah, that's exactly what they are," Daryl nodded, clearly impressed that Rick was getting it. "An' I reckon that's why they go ta the places they know, like where they lived - or where they died."

Rick watched Daryl light up another cigarette, waiting for him to continue. Despite Rick's despair at what was happening to him, he couldn't deny that listening to Daryl talk about it was fascinating.

"Longer ya can see 'em, the better ya can spot 'em," Daryl explained. "Like I told ya, they ain't see-through, or walkin' around in grey robes - they dress like they always did, but you'll see a little fuzziness around the edges, like static on a television." Daryl traced the outline of a body with his finger, before taking a long drag that sharpened his cheekbones. "The older I get, the more of a chill I feel around 'em too. The longer they've been what they are, the colder they can make a room. Some, it's like a draught through the bottom of a door an' that's it. The older ones can ice up yer windows, make yer fingers blue."

Rick thought about his rental house – the things being moved, the noises. He rubbed his hand along his stubble before sheepishly beginning to speak.

"What if you don't see any, but they... do stuff."

"What kinda stuff?"

"Doing shit at home. Turning things on and off. Making noises at night."

Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"Huh. This in your place?"

"What passes for my place. I'm renting right now." Rick felt empty just thinking about it. With anyone else, he would have been embarrassed to describe what was happening, but not with Daryl. "I hear something under the floorboards and it's not mice. I find the oven switched off when I know I put it on. Things are moved, turned upside down..."

Daryl sucked in his cheeks, and Rick wondered if he was suppressing a grin.

"You laughing at me?" Asshole, Rick wanted to tease, but didn't.

"They're like people," Daryl said, traces of mirth in his voice. Experience. "Some of 'em jus' want ta be assholes fer the sake of it. Prob'ly jus' pissed off that ya've moved in on its patch. Ignore it, ones like that are usually harmless."

"I guess I was hoping you'd tell me there was some way I could get rid of it," Rick sighed. "And rid of... whatever it is I have that makes me see and feel this shit."

Daryl slowly shook his head.

"Reckon yer stuck with it fer the rest of yer days, sorry ta be the one ta break it ta ya. Ya'll learn ta live with it. An' ya'll not get rid of the one in yer house, neither. Best leave it be, Rick. With most of 'em, they've been there a long, long time before us."

Rick looked around the trailer.

"What about in here?"

"What about it?" Daryl's voice hardened and his shoulders visibly hitched up with tension.

"It's not exactly new, is it," Rick ventured. "Does anything... live... in here?"

"No." Daryl's mouth was a thin line. "Always been in our family. Merle used it the most, then me."

"Where did you live before?" Rick sensed he was pushing his luck, but he couldn't help it. He was intrigued by Dixon; he wanted to know more.

"With our daddy, then Savannah." Daryl twirled the lighter around in his fingers.

"Savannah? What did you do down there?"

Even before Daryl lurched forward, hissing a response, Rick knew he'd pushed too far.

"What is this?" Daryl spat. "Twenty fuckin' questions? I told ya what I think an' what's happenin' ta ya. Stop fuckin' goin' on at me about shit that ain't none of yer business an' ain't got fuck all ta do with the girl."

Rick leant towards Daryl earnestly.

"Look, we don't know each other, and I know that maybe I'm not the kind of person you think you can trust, but I'm not like my partner, okay?" Rick saw Daryl raise an eyebrow in wry disbelief, and shook his head, frustrated. "I'm not. I put myself on the line visiting here today. I've told you things that I wouldn't dream of telling anybody else in case they put me in an institution or something."

"Have ya got a point, or... "

"The point is that I've spent the past few months having people walk on eggshells around me and treat me like I'm an invalid," Rick slapped his palm down on the table. "But you've listened to me and made me feel a little saner. So I figure I owe you one."

"Don't want or need anythin' from ya."

"Tell me about your brother."

Daryl scowled.

"There ain't nothin' ta tell."

Rick sat back.

"I'm pretty good at telling when people are lying. Comes with the job. I think you know more. I think you think he didn't do it."

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek. Rick guessed Daryl was wondering whether he was to be trusted. He didn't blame him, Rick reflected. He knew that to Daryl, he probably came across as someone who claimed to understand him but really he was trying to catch him out. But Rick wasn't like that, and he didn't think that Daryl was all he might appear to be at first glance, either.

Daryl alternated between biting his thumbnail and chewing his cheek.

"Ya want a beer?" he eventually asked.

"Not much of a drinker since I got out of the hospital, but sure," Rick relented, accepting a bottle of cheap beer. If a little booze loosened Daryl's tongue, all the better.

Daryl handed Rick a bottle opener, opening his own bottle with the flat of his hand against the table edge. Then he sat down and looked Rick's face up and down slowly.

"Ya fuck me over, Officer, an' ya'll be in trouble," he warned.

Rick patted his sides and pockets.

"No notebook, no recorder, no gun. This is off the record."

Come on, Daryl, Rick wanted to say. Inside, he knew that perhaps this was a bad idea, sticking his nose into an arrest that hadn't happened on his watch. And for the Dixons, of all people. But there was just something... something that... Rick didn't know.

"The girl," Daryl finally began. "Her name was - is, I guess - Lydia. 19 year old runaway, maybe inta her drugs, ya know the type. Probably had a lot of girls like her in the back of yer car over the years, right?"

Rick nodded, encouraging Daryl to go on.

"Word is that she was a hooker, like that makes any difference as ta whether she lives or dies, right."

"It shouldn't matter if she was," Rick agreed.

"The fact that Merle had her in a car is proof enough ta me," Daryl continued. "Merle likes his women as much as he likes his drugs, 'cept he tended to steal the drugs an' pay for the women. Could see him likin' a girl like Lydia. Younger, pretty, actually had teeth compared to some of the meth-head women that normally hang around here." Daryl picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Was a Saturday mornin' an' the manager of the liquor store was throwing out the trash when he saw her body behind the dumpster. Poor bitch, just left there like a used rubber."

"You said she was stabbed," Rick mused. "There would have been a weapon."

Daryl gave a snort of derision.

"Wasn't one beside her, or near. But it don't matter, ya think they're goin' ta investigate the death of a girl like her properly?" he raged. "Newsflash, Rick Grimes, yer department is corrupt as fuck. They don't give a fuck about some teenage runaway. Better for the community if someone sellin' themselves an' takin' drugs is off the street, right? An' man, did they kill two birds with one stone by bringin' Merle in or what?"

Rick felt his defences go up. He'd always taken pride in his work and done things by the book. Shane, okay maybe he was a little too gung-ho at times, and then there was Leon Bassett who'd covered his shifts for him – now he was a dumbass. But... what Daryl was saying wasn't wrong. Rick couldn't say in good conscience that crimes against people like Lydia were ever allocated as many resources as others.

"Why Merle?" Rick asked. "They had to have some reason to think..."

"There were cameras outside the front of the liquor store," Daryl said. "Caught Merle pullin' up outside in some car that had been reported stolen the day before. The girl was in the passenger seat, could tell from the white dress she was wearin'. Merle got out to buy smokes an' then drove away again."

"She was still in the car when he drove away?"

"Yuh-huh."

"Well then..."

Daryl rolled his eyes.

"Well then what?" he sneered. "There were no cameras at the back, where the dumpster was. Merle was the last car in the parkin' lot that night. Who's to say he didn't drive off with her, kill her, an' then go back a different way. Fuckin' all points to him, don't it."

Inwardly, Rick agreed that yes, it all pointed to Merle Dixon. If Shane had been there, he'd have been convinced of it – Rick had long since explained Occam's razor to his partner – but Rick himself had seen that trend bucked before.

"I don't think you're convinced," he told Daryl.

Daryl's left shoulder jerked upwards in a sharp shrug.

"Your buddies are, so..."

Daryl had helped Rick, more than he probably realised. And he looked a little defeated right now – resigned. Rick imagined that putting up with his lot was something Daryl was accustomed to. And his lot was probably bad.

Rick tapped the table lightly, broaching the subject as gently as he could.

"Daryl, if you want, I can..."

"What?"

"Look into it for you."

Daryl's eyebrows raised appreciatively for a split second before his face settled back into his normal half-scowl. But when he spoke, there was no trace of hostility.

"I appreciate ya offerin' an' all but what's done is done. If it weren't for this, you guys would have gotten Merle for somethin' else."

Rick made to argue, but closed his mouth again. His was a simple world where he wanted to believe that there were good guys and bad guys, and the latter went to prison after being caught fair and square by people like him. But he knew Daryl probably hadn't experienced things that way. Just look at how Shane had been so eager to throw him into the back of their car, even when all he had been involved in was a meaningless scuffle in a bar.

Rick wanted to be different. He wanted to do the right thing, always had.

"If your brother didn't do it, then there's someone still out there who did," Rick stated. "And I wouldn't be doing my job if I let that happen."

"Why'd ya care?" Daryl asked.

"I do my job right," Rick replied firmly, raising an eyebrow at the wry smile playing on Daryl's lips.

"Merle would be callin' ya a do-gooder right now if he knew this," Daryl shook his head.

"And you?" Rick wondered why Daryl's approval suddenly seemed important to him.

"Hell... I get it. An' maybe..." Daryl bit down onto his bottom lip.

"What?"

"Maybe she's appearin' ta us for a reason, ya know?" Daryl mused. "Mean, she's prob'ly jus' stuck here 'cause she didn't go peaceful, but -" He licked his bottom lip and a slight wince passed across his face. "Don't want ta freak ya out, Rick, but maybe it was you she was lookin' for an' not me."

Rick felt a flutter in his stomach at the suggestion. He wanted to help using fingerprinting and paperwork and profiling. Anything more... other-worldly than that was out of the question.

"I don't see what I can do," he argued. "Not apart from usual police work."

"Sometimes ya just know," Daryl said. "Most of 'em just need a hand gettin' away from our world for good, so they're not wanderin' around, stuck here."

Rick slammed a hand down onto the table top, making Daryl start.

"If that's the case, then you know what I think?" Rick enthused. "I think the girl is stuck here because her killer is still out there somewhere. I think Merle didn't do it. And I think you think he's innocent too."

Daryl stood up and opened the fridge.

"Have another beer, Officer," he said in a mocking tone. "Before ya get even more carried away."

Rick accepted it from Daryl gratefully, his wedding ring clinking off the glass as he did so. He saw Daryl glancing at it, his lips pursed. Rick couldn't stop himself from blushing awkwardly.

"Hard habit to break," he murmured, seeing Daryl's look of confusion. "Divorced," he explained. "Since after I got out of the hospital."

"That's harsh, gettin' divorced after what ya've been through."

"We would've gotten divorced either way. We were already separated. It wouldn't have been fair expecting her to stick around just because I'd been in a coma. I'm not into pity." Rick rubbed his forehead, feeling the effects of the beer already after months of not drinking alcohol. "...A pity fuck would be okay though."

Rick saw Daryl's face flush bright red, redder even than his own had gone. He wasn't normally given to outbursts like that, and hadn't admitted to anyone that he'd been feeling that way. He and Lori had married pretty much straight after high school. There'd never been anyone before her, or since. And truth be told, not much during. They had both been too young for marriage, rushed through their courtship and engagement. They'd been on the verge of splitting up, but then Carl had come along, just as they had begun to believe that they couldn't have children. Now here Rick was, just turned forty with a ten year old son who still didn't understand why daddy had had to move out.

Sitting in the trailer of a man he didn't know wasn't the time nor place to get into that.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Rick spluttered, covering his eyes briefly. "I don't have much tolerance for alcohol at the moment."

"'S okay," Daryl replied, barely audible as he ran a fingerprint up and down the length of his bottle, swiping at the drops of condensation running down it. Rick watched as Daryl absentmindedly licked a droplet from off his finger, then looked away.

"I um, I think it's time I should be going," Rick croaked, rubbing his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans. Suddenly the trailer was stifling. "I've imposed on you enough."

He slowly stood up, sniffing the air. He looked at the table, where Daryl's pack of cigarettes sat, his lighter on top of it. Yet Rick could smell cigarette smoke, as if Daryl had lit one, even though his hands were empty.

"Can you..." Rick began, looking around. "Is something burning? Smells like cigarettes, but..."

Daryl looked down at his feet shyly.

"Oh, that's just my mom," he said matter-of-factly.

Rick was about to reply when he saw smoke billow across the table, right in front of his face, as if someone was smoking right beside him.

"And... and... " he stammered. "She's...?"

Daryl crossed his arms, and Rick thought he saw a half-smile on Daryl's face, as if he was enjoying Rick's shock.

"She died when I was a kid. Don't mean she can't say hello on occasion, though."

The smoke continued to swirl around Rick's head, as if it was being blown right at him. He waved a hand to disperse it, but a fresh wave came, catching in his throat. It was strong and sweet, almost sickly; hints of cheap perfume mingling with it.

Daryl joined Rick in standing up, blowing at the smoke.

"Shit man, doesn't normally last as long as this. She don't usually stick around." Daryl's voice lowered sadly. "Jus' like when she was alive."

Rick felt his head go light. The beer, the smoke, the sleepless nights from whatever was in his house, the divorce, the coma, too many shifts, too hot in here, the girl, Daryl Dixon... he...

=

"Rick?"

Rick opened his eyes, seeing scuffed brown work boots and frayed black jeans through blurry vision. It took him a few seconds to register that Daryl was hunkered down beside him, lightly pressing a finger against his shoulder.

"Ya dropped like a stone," Daryl said, pressing the back of his hand against Rick's forehead. "Ya ain't got a temperature, so that's somethin'."

"Need to get up," Rick grunted, trying to lift his head from the brown and cream patterned carpet. He saw Daryl stretch his hand out, and grabbed it, allowing Daryl to help pull him up.

"Sit back down, asshole," Daryl demanded, and Rick obeyed. His head thumped – but mostly with embarrassment.

Daryl set a cup of water down in front of him.

"The fuck was that?" he rasped, clearly over Rick's shit for one day.

"I don't know," Rick confessed. "Tiredness, I think. Booze for the first time since I got shot. Being completely fucking overwhelmed at what you've told me today, maybe?"

"Ain't my fuckin' fault," Daryl snapped. "Think I want a cop lyin' on my floor out of it? Yeah, that'd look great, wouldn't it."

"I wasn't accusing you," Rick pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. Daryl's moods could flip from second to second, he was beginning to realise. "Give me a moment to get myself right and I'll be out of your hair."

"Take yer time," Daryl sighed. "Last thing I need is ya gettin' sick on yer way home an' writin' yer car off or somethin'. Wouldn't look good if they traced it back to the Dixon trailer." He picked up his cigarettes, then seemed to think better of it, and set the pack back down again.

"How do you live with this?" Rick pleaded. "Your mom? Like it was nothing, normal."

"Used ta it, Rick. She comes an' goes. Not so often, but it happens."

"Do all the Dixons visit you, or..." Rick attempted to joke, but it fell flat. Daryl's face was stern, his eyes flashing a warning not to ask any further.

Rick winced, feeling a sting at the back of his head. Daryl noticed, getting up as quick as a flash.

"Ya hurt?"

Rick lightly rubbed his head.

"I don't think so. Might have a bruise but that's it."

"Lemme see."

Daryl moved behind him, and then Rick felt Daryl's large fingers carding through his hair. Rick felt his shoulders automatically tense up as Daryl's digits pressed against his skin. He thought he felt breath on the back of his neck, too, but pushed that thought away. He really needed to leave. Maybe coming here had been the latest stupid decision he had made.

"Ain't no blood," Daryl commented, still standing behind Rick. "Might have a bump tomorrow like a fuckin' Looney Tunes character or somethin', though."

"Thanks," Rick said, feeling Daryl pat him on the shoulder by way of ending the conversation.

Daryl walked back around to face him, and just as Rick was about to say his goodbyes, there was an almighty bang as the ashtray flew off the table and bounced against the wall, making a large crater in the thin plaster.

"What the FUCK!" Rick exclaimed, jumping up, then hopping to the side as a long crack began to slowly appear up the middle of the trailer window. He held his breath as he watched its progress, the noise of it piercing his eardrums. What was happening? Was this actually real, or was he still lying unconscious on the floor?

Rick didn't have time to jump out of the way as Daryl sprung into action, barrelling towards him and pushing him down onto the floor, where he lay on top, shielding Rick's body with his own.

"Jus' lay still fer a second," Daryl ordered, hissing into Rick's ear; beer and cigarettes thick on his breath. Rick could feel the rough material of Daryl's shirt, the dampness of his skin. He was heavy, solid. His muscled arms pinned them both to the floor, and Rick looked at the criss-crosses of old scars on the inside of his wrists. Daryl's heartbeat was rapid, his breathing ragged.

"Daryl, what the fuck -"

"Shh!" Daryl hissed. "Shut the fuck up an' stay still."

Rick complied, but looked upwards, his mouth dropping open in horror as the ashtray that had been lying on the floor appeared to be lifted up by unseen hands. It hovered mid-air momentarily, the sunlight coming through the window and glinting against the glass only serving to make it look even more menacing. Rick squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for an impact as it dangled above he and Daryl's heads.

"Don't ya fuckin' dare," Daryl's voice came out in a low, dangerous growl, and at first Rick thought he was talking to him, telling him not to move again, but as the ashtray stayed static, he realised that Daryl was talking to whatever – or whoever - was moving it.

"Stay down!" Daryl shouted, completely covering Rick's body as the ashtray was flung against the window in an explosion of shattered glass. The noise was deafening, the crash of glass against glass terrifying. Daryl's body felt roasting hot against Rick's, uncomfortably so, but as Daryl finally moved off him, Rick felt a sense of loss at that heat being removed.

Daryl crept to the broken window and bent down to gingerly pick up what remained of the ashtray, his feet crunching against the broken glass that now littered the floor.

"Only fuckin' bought it last week," he drawled nonchalantly.

Rick sat up onto his elbows, quickly glancing down at his lap and then looking up at Daryl.

"What the... who..."

"Wasn't anythin'," Daryl replied. "Nothin' ya need ta concern yerself with anyway." He swallowed. "Ya need a hand up? Again?"

"I'm fine," Rick got to his feet, surveying the mess. "You got a brush or something so we can clear this up?"

Daryl shook his head.

"Ain't yer problem."

"It might not be, but I can give you a hand, can't I?"

"I'd sooner ya went," Daryl confessed. "Ya don't need ta know what that is, but I'm tellin' ya this – it sure as hell didn't fuckin' like ya bein' here. Usually only sticks to smaller shit. Never broke my fuckin' window before."

"The paper cups," Rick realised.

"Can't keep myself in glasses," Daryl shrugged, then nodded at Rick. "Sorry ya had to go through all that. Sounds like ya've had nothin' but shit this past while." He looked down at his feet, sniffing. "Ya know there's nothin' I can do to help with what ya been seein' an' shit, but... if yer stuck, ya can ask me, okay?"

"Thank you," Rick replied earnestly, looking down at the floor. "I hope whatever did this is something you can fix." He paused. "I'll look into Merle's case. I can't promise anything, but if there's anything I find to prove he's innocent, I'll do what I can."

Daryl gave a short nod as Rick walked to the door.

"He's bad, ain't goin' ta lie," Daryl said. "And there's a dozen fuckin' reasons he could be put in a cell. But killin' some girl? That ain't Merle."

Rick said a goodbye and put his hand on the door handle, immediately snatching it away. The door handle was so cold that his skin had stuck to it, like how when he was little he would get his tongue stuck to a popsicle. When he looked down, the handle was frosted over, even though the trailer was hot and humid. He decided against saying anything, it was just another weird occurrence in a series of them today.

"Take care of yourself, Daryl," Rick said, stepping down onto the ground outside.

Daryl hovered in the doorway, calling Rick's name as he made to walk to his car.

"I'm bad too, Rick. Don't go thinkin' I ain't."

Chapter Text

'We have to stick together, us lot'/A blue Toyota/Southern men/Yellow chair/Partners

Daryl's footsteps echoed against the gleaming mahogany floor of the house he had just entered, and he worried his old boots would leave a trail of muddy footprints, like he himself was some sort of disgusting stain to be wiped away.

He could smell furniture polish and a scented candle – some lemony kind of shit that made him want to sneeze. The forest-green hallway walls were adorned with framed black and white photographs of a couple that looked blissfully in love. He looked away quickly from them, discomfort crawling up his spine, and lingered at the bottom of the wide staircase, his hand resting on the white bannister.

This house was old, maybe 100 years or so, but Daryl wasn't picking up anything. Sometimes, in places like this, he could barely move for the dead ones around him. They chattered in his ear, poked and prodded his skin with their icy fingers. Yet this house was still, serene. It had been a happy place up until very recently, he could tell. It was warm and comforting, the kitchen full of copper pans and freshly baked bread that he had been offered and greedily accepted.

Daryl had known after being here for less than five minutes that he couldn't help the owner, but somehow it was now a half hour later, and he was still wandering the large, airy rooms and lush garden.

"Anything?" a hopeful voice asked, and Daryl saw the owner, Aaron, hovering in the doorway of the lounge. He was heavily stubbled, his face lined and tired-looking. In a washed-out blue t-shirt and too-big grey sweatpants, he looked like he hadn't slept for months.

Daryl gave a rueful shake of his head.

"What about trying the garden again?" Aaron pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Eric loved the garden, he was always out there. Planting tomatoes, spinach... that pesto I gave you with the bread? I made that from one of the basil plants that he grew, and..."

"There ain't anythin' out there," Daryl interrupted, wincing at the man's babbling. He saw Aaron pick up his wallet from a table, fishing out a wad of bills and thrusting it at Daryl.

"I'll pay you extra," he begged. "Anything you want. Spend the rest of the day here, if you like. There's a roast chicken in the oven and pitcher of iced tea in the fridge, I can..."

"No," Daryl put a hand up to stop him, turning around to face the front door. "I can't give ya what yer asking me. I'm sorry, but I ain't pickin' anythin' up."

Aaron looked crestfallen as he sank down and sat on the bottom stair, his head in his hands. Daryl stood with his arms hanging by his sides, feeling useless and intrusive. Once, in the very recent past in fact, he would have told Aaron lies to make him think that he was getting messages from the other side. He would have made shit up just to make a quick buck.

It had been Merle's idea at first, to hire out Daryl's unique services. If ya have ta be the family freak, might as well make a profit, right little brother? had been his reasoning. He'd stolen a wallet from somebody under Merle's orders, enough to place an advert in the local paper. They'd both been shocked at how much people wanted to believe; how much they were willing to pay to hear that their loved one was content to have passed onto the other side. Some of them had been old dears, superstitious and grieving dead husbands or babies they had lost decades before. Those ones were tough to cope with, but Merle didn't care. Others had been younger and rich as fuck – like the fancy-ass blonde lawyer lady whose sister had died of blood poisoning after a fucking bite, of all things. Daryl still remembered her look of barely-hidden disgust when he had walked in, stinking of booze from the night before and probably covered in squirrel guts from he and Merle's latest hunt. But when he had made up a whole load of crap about how her sister had been standing right beside her, her expression had softened, and all of a sudden she was Daryl's new best friend. He told her enough for her to shove money into his hands, which Merle then blew on drugs the very next day.

After that, it was easy to show up at folks homes and make everything up. Even when he did see the people that had passed, he ignored them in favour of telling their living relatives all the shit they wanted to hear. That their loved one was at peace now, that they loved them very much, that they had been lifted up into Heaven and were now an angel. Any guilt he had felt had swiftly disappeared when he and Merle had been able to drink and eat to their heart's content afterwards.

Then the whole mess with their daddy had happened, and Daryl had departed for Savannah.

He didn't think about that.

Now here he was, whoring himself out as a medium again. Using people, manipulating them. Playing on their emotions and grief. He was a piece of shit.

Something about Aaron, though, made him not want to pretend this time. Seeing the happy, smiling faces in the framed photographs of Aaron and his boyfriend, Eric, made him feel weird about lying to the man. He didn't know whether they warmed his heart or made him feel cold, so very oddly cold.

Rick kept springing into his mind, making him wonder what he would think about all of this. Stupid bastard wasn't coping with seeing the dead, and Daryl guessed that Rick would never use his abilities to make money. He looked at the photographs again, then down at Aaron, and thought of Rick once more.

Daryl sat down onto the stair beside Aaron with a sigh.

"I could lie ta ya, ya know," he confessed, taking his lighter from his pocket and absentmindedly running his finger through the flame. "Done it before, plenty."

Aaron lifted his head, his eyes reddened and rheumy.

"I don't like smoking and I don't normally allow it in the house," he began, "but I'd sure love it if you gave me a cigarette right now."

Daryl handed him one and they both lit up.

Aaron winced, gave a cough, and stretched his arm out to look at the cigarette.

"Ya don't smoke?" Daryl asked.

"I used to," he replied. "Over ten years ago. I quit... I quit when I met Eric," his words came out in a sob and he took long drags, his hands shaking. "He hated the smell of them, hated how it lingered on my clothes and hair. He always smelt great, you know? Tea tree shampoo and clean clothes, and... fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be boring you with all of this." He stood up, stubbing the cigarette out in a coffee mug.

"'S okay," Daryl replied gruffly, also standing up. "Jus' sorry that I can't help ya."

"I have to admire your honesty, I suppose," Aaron said. "When I called, I was scared you'd be a conman. I watch all those trashy medium shows, used to laugh at them, think how gullible the people on them were. Then Eric went and died, and I just needed to know that he was alright. He fell, did I tell you on the telephone? He was out running and he hit his head. They found him leant against a tree. It would have been a funny story for us to tell if he hadn't gotten a blood clot and abandoned me." He huffed a laugh. "Guess Eric has nothing to say to me. That's a first."

"'M sorry," Daryl said gently. "Can't choose when I see or hear somethin', an' I ain't goin' ta pretend yer friend - "

"Boyfriend," Aaron corrected.

Daryl looked at his feet.

"-ain't goin' ta pretend that I can pass on a message if there ain't none ta give." He looked once more at the photographs of the pale, slender man with red hair. "Ya had a real good life with him, looks like. An' a nice place here."

"We put a lot of work into this house, he and I," Aaron agreed, his expression proud. "It was our dream home. Somewhere we could grow old together. He picked out the paint and the tiles when we moved in. And he searched for a chair like the yellow one in that room back there for months. He drove me demented, nothing I found was ever just right. If anything, I thought he'd appear to you to bawl me out for spilling a drop of red wine on one of the arms."

Daryl was happy to let Aaron talk. Seemed like that would help just as much as him seeing Eric would. The way Aaron's eyes lit up when he spoke about someone he had loved so much was unfamiliar to Daryl. Anyone he was ever supposed to have loved had never done anything but use him or hurt him, and anyone that had ever loved him had... wait, had anyone ever loved him?

"Ya know, if he ain't appearin' ta me, then I think it's 'cause he's at peace," Daryl began. "Some of 'em appear 'cause they've got unfinished business, or they're disconcerted. He got everythin' he wanted an' needed from life, an' from you – so he's maybe moved on ta some place better than here."

"Thank you," Aaron nodded, and reached out a hand for Daryl to shake.

Daryl looked around. A photo of Aaron and Eric sitting on the hood of a car together caught his eye.

"My advice is enjoy yer memories of him," his cheeks reddened. "The two of ya look like ya had somethin' special. Not all of us get that."

"You're a good man," Aaron implored. "I hope you can experience it."

"I won't, but thanks fer sayin'."

"You never know, and you're welcome." Aaron looked at Daryl curiously. "We have to stick together, us lot, don't we."

"...'Scuse me?"

Aaron's eyes widened and he held his hands up.

"Oh I meant... humans, men, I didn't mean... I thought... I didn't -"

"I'm goin' ta be on my way," Daryl said sharply.

Fucking asshole, Daryl thought as he stomped outside to his motorcycle, leaving Aaron standing in the doorway of the house, looking strained and slightly embarrassed. Daryl felt angry and ashamed at the wad of money in his pocket; Aaron had paid him anyway even though he had done sweet fuck all. Who cares, take that fag's money, ain't ya ever heard of the pink dollar? Merle would have said.

Daryl thought about a friend he'd had when he was 10 or 11, he couldn't quite recall. Paul, he had been called. His daddy and Merle both had said he was strange, a freak. Said that Daryl shouldn't play with him, there was something wrong with him, something that little boys shouldn't have wrong with them. Daryl had kept playing with him, and when Merle had found out, he'd knocked Daryl flat on his back, told him it was time for him to be a man, that if he wasn't careful he'd be playing with Barbie dolls before he knew it.

Daryl didn't realise what all of that had been about until he was in his early teens, and he'd kept everything to himself from then on in.

And now Merle didn't know that Daryl was still advertising his unique services. Daryl didn't want him to know; it was just something else that Merle could give him shit about. Daryl wondered why that mattered – after all, Merle might not be getting out of jail for a long, long time, if ever. It had been two weeks since Rick Grimes had been in his trailer, playing nice, asking questions about the case, and he'd heard zip, squat, nada. Just another prick who'd been out to help himself. Typical cop. Typical human.

Daryl rode home quickly, picking up beers and some meatball subs on his way. At least he'd eat well after his less than satisfactory day. He thought about Aaron, now sitting alone in that fancy lounge with his expensive hi-fi and marble fireplace. Did it matter? All that stuff he had? Daryl had fuck all, but he and Aaron were still in the same boat. Sitting alone on a Saturday night with only some food and television for company.

Wasn't like him, to not be able to pick anything up. Most of the time, dead ones were never done showing themselves to him. He'd seen three alone on his way to Aaron's home. He hoped it would be a quiet night in the trailer; he had hastily repaired the window, but even now he was still tip-toeing across the floor when he was in bare feet in case there wereit slivers of glass embedded in the carpet.

"The fuck?" he muttered inside his helmet as he pulled up at the trailer and saw an old blue Toyota sitting outside on the sun-bleached grass, its engine still running and some rock song from the 1970s pumping out. Its inhabitant was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, either through impatience or in time with the music.

Daryl got off his bike and removed his helmet as Rick Grimes opened his car door and stepped out. He was wearing a thin brown checkered shirt, its sleeves rolled up. Daryl noted how one of Rick's arms was more tanned than the other, and visualised Rick's arm hanging out of the window of his cop car as he did his rounds.

Rick was holding something in his right hand that glinted in the evening sun.

"Ya want somethin'?" Daryl snapped, tired and irritable from what had happened at Aaron's house, and feeling increasingly guilty at the money in his pocket.

Rick held up what he was holding with a smile that Daryl felt annoyed by. It was a metal ashtray.

"I figured this one might be harder to break," Rick quipped.

Daryl didn't move, just stared.

"If you don't want it, I can..." Rick's words trailed off and he looked over at the trailer door. "Look, I was wondering if I could come in."

We have to stick together, us lot, don't we, Aaron's voice kept saying over and over in Daryl's head.

"Why'd ya keep comin' here?" he raged, barging past Rick, who remained standing there, slightly gormlessly. His calm demeanour enraged Daryl further. "Ya some kind of queer or somethin'?" he spat, immediately regretting his words. Rick took a step backward, his hands up.

"I'll just leave this here and be going," he set the ashtray onto the bottom step, looking so hang-dog that Daryl was immediately overwhelmed with guilt.

Sometimes, the hateful words in his brain were so strong that they escaped from his mouth, even if he didn't want to say them, or even really believed in them.

"C'mon," Daryl sighed, beckoning Rick in. "Shitty day, man. Shouldn't have said that."

It was only when Rick came in and sat down did Daryl realise how pale-faced the other man was; his skin looked ashen and there was a tremor in his hands as he twirled that damn wedding ring around his finger.

"Ya didn't jus' come here ta give me the ashtray, did ya?" he realised.

"I saw her again," Rick said.

=

Daryl sat back, watching Rick finish one of the sandwiches. The way he made small noises as he chewed the food gave Daryl an odd sense of contentment that he soon forgot about as Rick crumpled up the paper.

"Thanks for that, I was starving," he said, wiping marinara sauce from his lips. "I never feel like eating much at home."

"So ya saw her again," Daryl replied, eager to get to the reason why Rick Grimes had landed at his door once more. He looked tired, his eyes slightly purple underneath, not unlike Daryl's own these days. Rick nodded and his hand automatically drifted down to his waist, as if searching for the weapon that was usually there.

"It was at the station," he began. "She was right there as I was changing after my shift. And yeah, it was a night shift, and I was tired, and your mind can play tricks under those circumstances, but she was there, Daryl. I swear."

"I believe ya, Rick. Don't need ta try an' convince me."

"It was more than just a split second, too," Rick continued, looking relieved that Daryl believed him. "When I closed my locker door and went to take my keys out, she was at the far side of the room, by the window. She was just standing there, staring at me, her mouth was opening and closing as if she was speaking – but I couldn't hear anything."

"They do that, some of 'em," Daryl nodded. "They ain't able ta communicate like you an' me. They get fuckin' angry about it, too. It's why some of 'em smash shit up ta get yer attention."

"Is that why things in here keep smashing?" Rick asked. "'Cause whoever it is is trying to communicate with you?"

"No," Daryl frowned. Rick Grimes didn't need to get himself involved in what was happening in this trailer. Not even Merle knew about that, and Daryl knew that Merle would only tell him it was his own stupid fault anyway. He knew that the cop in Rick wanted to press him further, get to the bottom of the disturbances in the trailer, but Daryl would never tell. Not just because he was ashamed, but because he didn't want to drag Rick into the middle of a whole lot of shit.

"I need to find a way to speak to her," Rick got back onto the topic at hand, clenching his fist and banging it lightly down onto the table, determined.

"Sometimes it just don't happen," Daryl replied with a sigh, thinking about his inability to help Aaron. "Plenty of times I've seen one of 'em over an' over, an' then one day they're jus' gone."

"I don't think Lydia is going anywhere. I think she wants – no, needs – my help," Rick said, slightly shyly. "I think she's stayed here because justice hasn't been done. And that she'll go when the real killer has been caught."

"Your kind says the real killer already has been," Daryl sneered.

"Well," Rick sighed. "Sometimes even my kind, as you call it, make fuck ups too. And some of them maybe aren't as good at being cops as they should be."

"What, like your partner?" Daryl wrinkled his nose. "He's a prick. Think he'd lock me up an' throw away the key if he could, even if I'd done nothin'."

"He's a good policeman," Rick said firmly. "I know he's a brash asshole, but when the shit hits the fan at work, I'm glad he's got my back."

"That how ya ended up shot, huh?" Daryl felt an acrid taste develop in his mouth at the thought of Officer Prickface Walsh fucking up and letting Rick take a bullet.

"Wasn't his fault," Rick argued. "We didn't know that there was another suspect in the car we were chasing that day. Shane would have taken my place if he could have, I know that."

"Hmmph," was the only reply that Daryl could muster.

"It wasn't Shane who put your brother in jail, if that's what your issue is with him," Rick said defensively. "I had a spare moment during the week to look up the file, and it's like you said – they saw Merle and Lydia in his car on the cameras, and it was an easy arrest."

"Told ya," Daryl replied, resentment bubbling up inside him. "Cops kind don't give a fuck 'bout people's lives as long as ya can be seen arrestin' someone."

"I'm still going to try to help," Rick implored. "I swear, Daryl. With or without communicating with Lydia. I believe in justice being done and I believe that innocent people shouldn't be in jail."

"Even if they're a Dixon?"

"I don't give a shit about family reputations." Rick's eyes flicked up to Daryl's. "From what I've seen, there's nothing to be ashamed of if you have that surname."

Daryl stood up, clearing his throat as he tidied away the sandwich wrappers hurriedly. Rick was a straight-talker, someone who spoke to him like they were equal in life, and Daryl wasn't sure how to deal with it. It was touching, he supposed, that Rick Grimes was so eager to try and talk to Lydia. He wasn't sure if the girl would manage to make proper contact. She was scared and fucked-up, Daryl knew that much. For someone who had just become a bridge, Lydia was a hell of a first dead one for Rick to help. Someone old would have been easier, or someone who'd died of a terminal illness or something. Not a murder victim that didn't seem to have anybody that had cared about her when she'd still been alive.

Maybe Rick needed some practice first of all, Daryl considered, an idea entering his mind that he couldn't believe he was even entertaining. He pushed the wrappers into the trash and turned to Rick, who was drumming his shapely fingers on the table.

"Ya got some place ta be?" he asked. "Ya ain't workin' tonight, are ya?"

"It's my night off," Rick replied.

Good, Daryl found himself thinking. 'Cause you look beat, Rick Grimes.

"If ya want somethin' ta do tonight ta take yer mind off things, might have a little job fer ya ta do," Daryl rubbed his nose and cleared his throat. "Only if ya ain't got something else on, 'm sure yer busy or have ta go see yer son, or..."

"I have nothing on," Rick said quickly – very quickly. "Do you want to go for a beer or som..."

Daryl felt his stomach drop and his underarms prickle with sweat.

"Nah, um... I um... "

"Oh," Rick's face was red. "Sorry if I thought wrong. Of course you weren't suggesting that, I mean..."

"A beer would be good," Daryl hurriedly said. "Y'know, sometime. But I need ta visit someone, make things right. Think ya might be able to help."

Daryl saw Rick's eyebrow twitch, and his mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

"Ain't any illegal shit, if that's what yer worried about," he drawled.

"I wasn't," Rick replied. "I was just wondering if you needed me to drive you somewhere."

"Be quicker on my bike," Daryl replied. "But ya'll save me money on gas if we take yer car."

=

Rick was a smooth driver, his long fingers resting against the wheel, tapping the rhythm of whatever song was in his head. Daryl noted the kids comic book in the back seat, a zombie on it front cover; the opened pack of mints on the dash; the Neil Young tape in the footwell, now missing its case. Daryl pointed to it with a wry smile.

"Merle an' my daddy wouldn't like that tape," he mused.

"Neil Young?"

"Yeah. Ain't ya never heard Southern Man?"

"'Course I have," Rick nodded. "I saw cotton and I saw black, tall white mansions and little shacks..."

"...Southern man, when will ya pay them back," Daryl finished, looking over to Rick with a happy grin before he even realised he was doing it. He quickly hardened his expression again. "Merle would call him a liberal, tree-huggin' pussy."

"That what you think?" Rick asked, side-eyeing Daryl.

"Nope."

"Me neither."

Daryl turned to look at Rick, giving a short nod, before pointing.

"Tale the next left an' then keep goin' way past the high school."

"Okay," Rick nodded, huffing a small laugh.

"What?" Daryl eyed him suspiciously.

"Just thinking, the last time we were in a car together, you had to sit in the back."

"Asshole," Daryl spat back, sucking his cheeks in so he didn't smile.

Was true though, it was a little odd sitting beside Rick as he drove. The only thing Daryl disliked, he realised, was that in the passenger seat he wasn't able to see Rick's eyes.

=

Daryl watched Rick as they stood outside Aaron's house. It was dark now, but there was a glow from behind the lounge curtains that indicated Aaron was home.

"Bet yer thinkin' that I couldn't know someone who lived some place like this, ain't ya?" Daryl smirked as Rick followed him up the long tree-lined path towards the front door.

"I'm thinking I want to know why you've brought me here," Rick stopped walking, waiting for a reply. "Seriously, Daryl. Tell me why I'm about to enter a house I've never been to before."

"Call it yer debut," Daryl replied, knocking the door. "Ya want ta communicate with Lydia? Well, let's see if ya can communicate with any of 'em first."

"Daryl, tell me what I'm doing..."

Rick's words were interrupted by the door opening. Aaron's face creased in confusion as he looked at Daryl, clearly wondering why he was there for the second time that day. Daryl saw Aaron look Rick up and down, and felt a twinge of irritation down in his belly.

"Daryl?" Aaron croaked, rubbing his forehead. He looked tired and his eyes were red-rimmed, making Daryl even more hopeful that Rick could manage to do what he had failed at earlier. "Did you leave something behind?"

Daryl was aware of Rick standing slightly behind him, confused as fuck. He nudged Rick's arm, encouraging him to take a step forward.

"This is Rick Grimes," Daryl said, more self-assured than he felt. "He's a bridge, jus' like me. Thought maybe he could help ya, seein' as I was fuckin' useless earlier. "

"You weren't useless, I..."

"Was."

Aaron smiled, but his eyes remained sad. He stepped backwards.

"Come on in, the two of you."

He held out a hand towards Rick, and Rick shook it. Daryl looked at their hands, how they both whitened from the firm grip they had. He stared at the handshake until it broke apart.

"Rick ain't never done this before," Daryl explained. "An' I've kinda brought him here an' he has no idea why, if ya want ta fill him in."

"Sure, sure," Aaron nodded, smiling winningly at Rick, who remained bemused. "I guess uh... that your um... friend here was trying to make contact with my boyfriend Eric, who died."

Rick looked quickly to Daryl, an eyebrow raised.

"An' I wasn't able ta," Daryl explained. "Didn't pick jack shit up, Rick. Hopin' ya can make things right fer Aaron. "

Anybody else might have lost their shit at being taken somewhere they didn't know to try to speak to the dead boyfriend of a man they had never met, Daryl noted, but not Rick Grimes. He nodded, putting his hands behind his back as he walked around the large hallway, looking at the same photographs that Daryl had only hours before.

This was probably a fool's errand, Daryl realised. As if Aaron hadn't been put through enough, now he could potentially be facing disappointment for the second time that day. But Rick paused as he neared the little room to the side of the hallway; the one that was lined with bookshelves and had a half-dozen candles on the hearth of the antique fireplace. He could tell from Rick's quickened breathing and the whites of his eyes that he could see something... someone.

"Can you..." Aaron began, but Daryl pressed his index finger to his lips.

"Give him time, he ain't been able ta do this fer long."

Daryl watched Rick enter the room, crouching down to smell one of the candles. Ginger and lemon, Daryl read the label. Sharp and citrussy, like the cologne Rick was wearing.

Rick stood up, visibly relaxing from the way his shoulders lowered and his face regained a more healthy pallor. He walked around the room confidently, turning to Aaron.

"Red hair."

Aaron nodded.

"Yes."

"I know that from the photographs already, obviously," Rick said. "I'm not going to pretend that I know that any other way."

Daryl held his breath.

"The chair in the corner – the yellow wingback one," Rick suddenly exclaimed. "He's sitting there, legs crossed, smiling. He looks happy... serene. He's turning around now to look at the wall behind him. He's pointing to one of the license plates."

Above one of the bookcases were an array of state license plates nailed to the wall.

"Which one?" Aaron's voice trembled.

"Vermont," Rick replied quickly. "He's really pointing at it now. That mean something to you?"

"I'm from Vermont. We met there."

Rick turned his head, and Daryl expected him to look at Aaron, but Rick didn't, he looked right at him, his eyes smiling in a Look I did it kind of way.

"Is he saying anything?" Aaron asked hopefully.

Daryl felt the citrussy scent in his nostrils once more as Rick moved closer towards them.

"No," Rick replied. "But I feel... calm, just watching him. I think he's content, just sitting there, reading. I'm sorry I can't pass on any message, but..."

"That's message enough," Aaron said quickly, wiping tears from his eyes. "Just to know that he's here. He's at peace. I know that's clichéd as fuck, but..."

"Not at all," Rick replied. Daryl watched as he patted Aaron's shoulder comfortingly. "And this might sound clichéd as fuck too, but do you know what I feel in this room when he's sitting right in front of you? Love. I feel love."

=

The sound of crickets in the muggy evening air of hot summers just like this one had always made Daryl feel nostalgic; like he was yearning for something but didn't know what. He felt it right now, as he and Rick Grimes sat on the hood of Rick's car chugging beers now that they were back from Aaron's place. They were parked up outside the trailer, but Daryl had yet to make it back inside.

"Never thought I'd be sittin' neckin' beers with a cop," he commented, and cocked his head towards Rick's bottle. "Ya know it's illegal ta drink an' drive, Officer?"

Rick held his index and middle fingers up.

"I've had two, I'll be fine. I am a man of the law," he joked, before his expression became more serious. "I think I deserve it after what just happened."

"Thanks fer tonight," Daryl said gruffly, throwing the cap of his beer against the trailer, where it joined dozens of others on the grass.

"It was an eye-opener," Rick replied, tipping his head back to take a long drink. Daryl watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "You do stuff like that a lot?"

Daryl looked down at his hands, feeling like Rick would disapprove if he knew that Daryl hadn't always been truthful with the people that had hired him.

"Sometimes," he began.

"Down in Savannah?"

Daryl looked up, surprised Rick remembered that Daryl had told him he'd lived there. Then again, it was Rick's job, he supposed. Remembering things so he could get people into shit further down the line, the cynical part of his brain said.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"What made you move down there?"

Daryl drank his beer slowly and deliberately.

"Jus' didn't want ta be here," he replied, pushing himself off the hood. He didn't know whether it was the beers or not, but there was something about Rick Grimes that made Daryl want to tell him things. Maybe his strong, handsome face; maybe his quiet manner; maybe the fact that there didn't seem to be one bit of judgement within him for the way Daryl lived.

But Daryl didn't need that shit.

All the same, he couldn't stop himself from realising that maybe Rick Grimes was that rare thing – a good man.

He turned to face Rick, who was still atop the hood, his face turned up towards the moon. Daryl wondered if Rick liked the silence as much as he did.

"What I said ta ya earlier, was wrong, an' 'm sorry," Daryl heard himself saying.

Rick slid off the car, dusting the ass of his jeans off. He put his hands on his hips, giving a slight shrug.

"It's forgotten."

Daryl bit down onto his lip.

"I'm an asshole, sometimes. Ya should know that about me, if..."

"If what?"

"If we, ya know. Keep crossin' paths, I guess. Only seein' as yer a bridge, like I am. Sometimes we need one another."

"Like today."

"Yuh-huh," Daryl nodded. "Like today. Or maybe even if ya want that beer, we can..." His voice trailed off as he watched Rick's eyes widen, no longer focusing on Daryl, but behind his head. Daryl didn't need to look around to see what Rick was startled by, but he did.

The girl was outside the cabin door, hovering a few feet off the ground. Daryl had long since ceased to be alarmed or frightened by the dead ones, but the girl – Lydia – she was getting to him. Because his brother was accused of murdering her.

Because she'd brought Rick Grimes into his life.

Her dark eyes were pained; her fingers pale and long as she reached out, grasping at nothing.

"Lydia," Daryl rasped, stepping forward slowly, as if he was approaching a nervous horse. "Ya need to try an' tell us what ya want, girl. Know yer scared. Know yer confused as fuck an' don't want ta be where ya are." He gestured to where Rick was standing, at his side now. "We can help ya, both of us. But ya have ta try an' tell us what it is yer here for."

Lydia stretched an arm out again, but she wasn't grasping at thin air this time. She was pointing at Rick.

Daryl heard Rick's voice, thick with nerves, but still managing to be calm. Yeah, he'd used that voice with dozens of criminals over the years, Daryl guessed.

"It's me you want to help you, right?" Rick soothed. "They got the wrong person, didn't they?"

Slowly, slowly Daryl and Rick paced forward, as if in tandem. It was odd, feeling like he had back up, Daryl thought. It had always been him alone with the dead ones. Figuring shit out himself, keeping what he was going through buried deep within. Now, Rick's presence by his side was reassuring rather than irritating. As if Daryl didn't have enough to feel confused about right now.

Daryl stopped pacing forward, letting Rick take charge. He held a hand out, wedding ring still on; a sheen of sweat on his forehead that made his curls plaster to his skin.

"Lydia," Rick implored softly. "Tell us – me – what you need me to do."

Daryl held his breath as Lydia's mouth began to move. No words came out, and he saw Rick shake his head in frustration.

Then she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

Daryl stood just behind Rick, seeing how the back of his neck was glistening. He could hear Rick's heavy, nervous breaths, and swallowed as he reached out to tap Rick's arm lightly. Rick flinched, then turned, apologising.

"Sorry, Daryl. Fuck, never felt adrenalin like that. Not even before I got shot. Fuck," he repeated, before breaking into a wide grin.

Daryl couldn't stop himself from smiling back.

"We'll work this one out, okay?" he smiled again as Rick nodded in agreement. "She's appearin' more an' more. Sooner or later she'll find a way ta communicate."

"We gonna do this together?" Rick asked.

Daryl crossed his arms, licking his bottom lip and nodding.

"Hell yeah."

As Rick held out his hand and Daryl gripped it in a handshake, a loud smashing noise came from within the trailer.

Rick raised an eyebrow in question, but Daryl shook his head.

"Doesn't matter."

Lydia was the most important thing right now, he told himself. What was in the trailer, the thing that played on his mind almost constantly, would have to be sorted out too. And sooner rather than later.

Because it sure as fuck didn't like him being around Rick Grimes.

Chapter Text

Saints and sinners/Diner/Good old-fashioned police work/whiskey

"Well, I hope Neil Young will remember. A Southern man don't need him around anyhow. Sweet home Alabama..."

Rick smiled, turning the volume of his car's stereo up as he drove away from his house. His Neil Young tape was still lying where it had been when Daryl was in the car. If he hadn't been on his way somewhere, Rick wasn't quite sure that he wouldn't have stopped at a phone booth to call Daryl and tell him that a song mentioning Neil Young was on the radio, after their discussion. Instead, he found himself singing along, realising that he hadn't sung out loud since he and Lori had split up. Maybe it was the fact that he had cut down on the night shifts that had him feeling a little lighter around the shoulders lately.

Sure, seeing Lydia was still shaking him up more than any shoot-out or stake-out had, and that damn presence in his house was still playing tricks on him, but Rick was waking up with a smile these days more often that he had in months. He was waking up with a little more than a smile, he thought to himself, but nothing was going to fix that now that he was single.

His stomach rumbling made him think of the meatball sandwich he'd eaten at Daryl's the week before. But then, his mind frequently drifted to the little trailer; its old, plasticky interior oddly comforting to him now. Daryl Dixon knew something about him that no other person in the world did, except for the man whose home they had been to.

Aaron had brought out a softer side to Daryl that Rick hadn't expected - the way he'd spoken gently and sympathetically when Aaron had talked about his dead boyfriend, and the light footsteps he had taken across his home, as if he didn't want to make any noise.

It had been a rush, seeing Eric sitting in the chair, as if he had been as real as Daryl standing behind Rick had been. It helped Rick to understand that the dead ones, as Daryl called them, didn't always have to be threatening or frightening. They could be at peace, quietly reading in the corner of a room as if they were still flesh and blood. Maybe Rick could cope with being a bridge if most of them appeared like that. Maybe not all of them would be like Lydia.

She had been standing in the garden when he had left the house that morning. Staring at him, like she always did, but this time, her hands weren't reaching out, they were at her face, her palms moving slowly down from her forehead to her chin. Once, twice, three times she had made that up-down motion, before she had disappeared.

Figuring out how to communicate with Lydia was tougher than any case Rick had ever had to crack. It was all the more frustrating given that it seemed like doing just that was the only way he was going to get Merle Dixon out of prison. And it was nothing to do with how happy that would make Daryl, it was just that Rick was proud of the work he did, and that meant the right people being put away.

At least, he thought it would make Daryl happy. Truth be told, Daryl didn't speak much about his older brother at all, or of any of his family. There was hurt in Daryl's past, Rick could tell. Maybe even abuse. Rick had seen it time and time again in his job; he'd lost count of the number of guys he had thrown in jail for spousal abuse, then a few years later the kids from those households would be out stealing and dealing drugs. Over and over, history repeated itself.

Rick was no fool, he'd known before Daryl had told him that he was bad that he wasn't a saint. But it was becoming increasingly clear to Rick that there was less of a sinner there than he had initially thought.

=

Rick rubbed his hands together as the waitress set a plate down in front of him. The appetite he had lost after the hospital and the divorce was back with a vengeance, and the cheese oozing from the middle of his burger was making his mouth water. He popped a hot fry into his mouth and waved a hand up and down across his face, his tongue burning.

"You've put on some weight," the voice of the person sitting opposite him said, slightly loudly thanks to the clatter of cutlery and babble of voices around them.

Rick let his mouth fall open in mock offence.

"Are you insulting me?" he teased, patting his trim stomach.

Michonne, his former partner, shook her head, her mouth splitting into a wide grin as the waitress set down a portion of onion rings in front of Rick.

"Not at all," she replied. "You needed to get some meat back onto those bones after the hospital, Rick. I'm pleased to see you looking better."

Rick nodded as he chewed.

"Good to hear," he said, swallowing. "So can I steal some of your French toast then?"

Michonne's face dropped.

"Lay a finger near my food and I will strangle you." She poured maple syrup onto her plate. "I never have the time to eat during my shifts, so I'm making the most of this. This toast is breakfast, lunch and dinner all rolled into one."

"And you lecture me about taking care of myself?" Rick drawled. "We should do this more often, like we used to."

"I know, I know," Michonne held her hands up apologetically. "Work's been pretty frantic, you know? Makes cruising around the county seem like a piece of cake."

Rick raised an eyebrow and Michonne shook her head rapidly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to shit all over what you guys do," she explained. "I mean, I know the crap you and I used to have to put up with when we were partners."

"I know what you meant," Rick explained. "More dead bodies and less bar fights for you nowadays, right?"

"Right." Michonne stifled a yawn, slightly smearing her crimson lipstick. Her grey trouser suit and black shirt were immaculate, but she looked tired.

"I'm going to order you another coffee," Rick said, standing up. He held his hand up. "Don't say no, I'm getting you one. And maybe a slice of pie too."

"Apple," Michonne called as Rick walked over to the counter, offering the waitress some change, which she refused. Rick recognised her – he'd pulled her drunken son out of his car two years ago, and he'd not had to pay for so much as a glass of milk ever since. Little things like that made him love his job. He'd never have suited what Michonne was doing, working homicide scenes in the city, pulling all-nighters to catch the most depraved members of society. They'd been partners when he was a rookie for a few years, before she'd gone onto bigger things and they'd paired him up with his childhood friend Shane.

He glanced around at Michonne while he waited for the waitress to cut a huge slice of pie.

"Cream?" the waitress called out, and Rick held his thumb and index finger up in a pincer movement.

"Just a little."

Rick turned back to Michonne again, his smile disappearing as he saw a man sitting at the table opposite. He was staring at Michonne, his face one of abject misery. He was wearing the same blue and white striped t-shirt that he'd been wearing in all the newspaper reports there had been after what happened. Rick squeezed his eyes shut. Not now, not with her here, he thought to himself. He had enough to deal with with Lydia, and his house, and Merle Dixon and Daryl. He couldn't have somebody else just appear, least of all him. And he could tell Michonne anything – and by Christ, she knew more about Rick than anyone else did – but he would never, ever be able to tell her about this.

As he took the plate of pie from the waitress, he tried to stop his hands trembling before setting it down in front of Michonne. She had finished her toast, and shovelled the pie into her mouth hungrily, licking cream from her bottom lip.

"How's things with Lori these days?" As she spoke, Rick noticed the creases at the side of her eyes that had never been there before.

"As good as they can be. I even have a coffee with her when I'm dropping Carl off sometimes. I just wish I could see him more often." Rick blanched. "Fuck, Michonne, I'm sorry, I..."

"Hey, it's fine," Michonne pushed her plate away.

"I shouldn't complain about seeing Carl every other weekend," Rick felt his cheeks burning with shame, made worse by glancing across at where the man was still watching them.

"It's okay to want to see your son more, Rick. I don't have a monopoly on missing a child."

Rick didn't speak. Three years and his heart still ached for her.

"Sounds like Lori's dealing with it all as well as she can," Michonne continued flatly, changing the subject.

"She is. Considering how much of a shock it was," Rick sighed, remembering You're disgusting and How many and Do I need to get tested for fucking diseases.

Michonne snorted into her coffee.

"Wasn't a shock to me."

"Well I know, but you know everything about everything don't you."

"Oh you've finally realised that, have you?"

Rick remembered a night at his and Lori's place. She had gone out to dinner with friends, so he'd invited Michonne and Shane around for some beers; a chance to relax together and shoot the shit away from work. Shane had blown them off to see some girl he was fucking behind her husband's back, so Rick and Michonne had made the most of the booze he had bought for three people. They'd eaten pizza, watched Rick's new VHS of The Terminator, and then she'd drunkenly lolled against him on the sofa, smelling great, like she always did. In an attempt to tell himself that if he started an affair, at least it would mean he was a red-blooded man, he'd leant over and kissed her. Briefly – maybe a little longer than briefly - she'd kissed him back before they'd parted with a laugh, knowing it would never be repeated or spoken about ever again. Rick had known then that if Michonne hadn't made certain parts of him stir, then no woman could.

She was everything Lori wasn't. Warm, mirthful – before what had happened anyway – intelligent, rational. When he'd first confessed to her that he and Lori had problems, she had looked at him through narrow, questioning eyes for months. She was the only person who had ever come out and asked him outright, and he had said Yes. Yes I think I might be.

Michonne stifled a yawn, crumpling up her napkin and looking him up and down.

"So how's work?"

"Fine, all fine," Rick shrugged. "Same as ever."

"Apart from...?"

"What do you mean 'apart from'?"

She pursed her lips.

"Because you didn't answer me properly which means there's something going on aside from throwing the local drunks in jail for the night."

Daryl flashed into Rick's mind, but he pushed it away and prodded his fork into the fleshy part of his palm. Damn her for always being so astute.

"There's a case," he began. "One that happened when I was in the coma. An arrest that asshole Leon Bassett made."

Michonne rolled her eyes wearily.

"What did he do wrong now?"

"I think he arrested the first guy he could," Rick replied. "The wrong guy."

"Who?"

Rick swallowed.

"Merle Dixon."

Michonne rolled her eyes again, and she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

"I recognise that name," she snorted. "A racist, redneck asshole, right?"

"Maybe," Rick shrugged. "I can't say for sure, I've never met him."

"He is," Michonne stated. "What did he do?"

"He's in for murder," Rick explained. "A girl was killed. They found her behind a dumpster." He swallowed. "Her name was Lydia."

"I read about that case. So Merle..."

"I don't think he did it," Rick interrupted, eliciting a confused look from Michonne.

"Why are you involving yourself in that case anyway?" she queried. "I thought they were easing you back in with paperwork and rookie jobs."

"I promised someone I'd help."

"Who?"

Rick looked down at the table.

"Merle's brother," he said as quietly as possible.

Michonne sat back, her eyes wide.

"Oh come on, Rick. Why are you wasting your time? I know you – you'll push yourself too far, put too much responsibility on yourself to do the right thing. And it's a great trait to have, it saved my ass when we were partners... but a brother of Merle Dixon's? How does that even happen?"

"I can't even begin to explain, Michonne." Rick exhaled as he glanced to the side, seeing that the man who had been watching them had disappeared.

"Rick – are you okay?" Michonne sounded concerned. "You've been through a lot, you're going through a lot – and I have to tell you, this sounds a little bizarre."

"I'm good. I feel better than I have in ages. I just want to see if there's anything I can do for Daryl, and..."

"Daryl."

"That's Merle Dixon's brother."

Rick cleared his throat, licked his lips, looked around the restaurant. Anything but look at Michonne's face. She leant towards him, gazing up into his eyes. Rick felt uncomfortable; trapped, even.

"Rick? Feeling alright?"

"Fine, why?" he spluttered.

"Your face has gone all red."

Rick rubbed his hand across his face to try to hide the flush.

"I'm fine, I'm just... I want to get to the bottom of this case, at least try to prove either way whether Merle Dixon did it or not."

"Was there a weapon or fingerprints left at the crime scene?"

"No." Rick could tell that Michonne's interest had been piqued as she began to ask questions.

"So why Merle?"

"Cameras picked up him and Lydia in a car in the parking lot a couple of hours before. That's all they have on him."

"They?"

"I mean we."

Michonne tapped her fingernails against her coffee cup. The clicking noise took Rick back to the many nights they'd thrashed out their thoughts on a case.

"Want me to run my eye over the files?" she suggested. "I know you'll have gone through them with a fine tooth comb, but a fresh pair of eyes worked plenty of times for us, didn't it?"

"You'd do that?" Michonne was the best, Rick knew. If anyone could help, she could.

"It seems like it's important to you. Officer Friendly, on the case as usual." Michonne shook her head and punched his arm lightly. "You'll never change, Rick."

=

Two nights later, Michonne walked slowly through Rick's living room and into the kitchen, a grimace on her face. She picked up a damp cloth that had been lying on the draining board for so long that it had begun to smell musty. Rick was just glad that the faucets didn't have a mind of their own that evening, like they had had every night for the past two weeks. Each time he arrived home, they would be running.

"I know," Rick said, shame-faced. "I just haven't had the opportunity to do much with the place. Looks like a student house, huh?" He opened the fridge to get some drinks, slamming the door shut as he saw a pair of sneakers in there. For fuck's sake. Whatever was in this apartment was clearly a fucking 12 year old prankster.

"It needs some homely touches," Michonne agreed diplomatically, as she set a pile of paperwork and manila files onto the table, along with some Chinese food. "I refuse to believe you're this useless. Have you considered some food that isn't microwaveable? A plant or two? A lamp?"

Rick didn't answer, feeling like he was a child that was being scolded. Michonne was right, though. He was living in limbo, unsure where to go or how long to stay in this house for. Lori always kept their fridge fully stocked and their lounge comfortable and cosy. His mind drifted towards Daryl's trailer, also sparsely furnished, but somehow more homely than here – despite all of the broken glass and oddness.

"Thanks for doing this," he said, sitting down opposite Michonne and opening a file.

"What? Buying you dinner or helping you go through these files again?" She opened the cartons and shared the food out onto two plates.

"Dinner, mostly," Rick joked through mouthfuls of noodles.

"I'm happy to help my old partner." Michonne closed her eyes in pleasure as she bit into a spring roll. "And I've not found a Chinese take-out in the city as good as our old favorite. Really, this is all for my own selfish appetite."

"Thanks Michonne. You know I could never ask Shane."

Michonne laughed, knowing full well what Shane was like – brash, opinionated, and incapable of reason sometimes.

"How is that asshole?" she asked. "Tell him he still owes me a beer from the last time I kicked his ass at pool."

"He's fine," Rick nodded. "Just over-protective of me since I came back to work."

"Well, he blames himself for what happened to you, you know that."

Rick did know. Shane would have taken the bullet for him if he could have, but that day would have played out the same no matter what they had done.

"I know," Rick agreed, automatically reaching a hand towards his scar. "But none of it was his fault."

"It wasn't your fault, either," Michonne commented, and damn it if it wasn't always like she could tell what Rick was thinking.

"I should have had better instincts that day," Rick clenched his fist as he played the scene over in his head for the thousandth time since he'd been shot.

"Your instincts were always perfect," Michonne argued. "They were the best, when we were partners.

"Not that day, they weren't." Rick pinched the bridge of his nose. "The only good thing is that Shane didn't get shot too."

"Pfft, as if a bullet could take him out," Michonne joked, before pausing. "Rick, don't doubt yourself, okay? You're a damn good cop. And you know that if you wanted, you could come work in the city with me some day."

"Yeah, maybe," Rick replied wanly. He didn't want that, he realised. Maybe once, the lure of working homicide with Michonne would have appealed, but not now. And it wasn't just doubt. It was something more. "Shane would miss me too much," he joked lamely.

"But I'm guessing he wouldn't be interested in helping you exonerate Merle Dixon." Michonne raised an eyebrow.

Rick gave a rueful smile.

"Nope. We always did our jobs very differently, me and him. And we're not... we used to be closer than brothers, but now..." He gave a brief shake of his head.

"Does he know why you and Lori split up?" Michonne asked, and Rick couldn't help but laugh.

"Jesus, are you insane? He'd never speak to me again."

"These are bad times," Michonne sighed. "I wish you had someone to talk to about it other than me."

Rick shrugged. There was nobody to talk to about what he felt, what he thought about. Stubble along strong jaws. Veined forearms that led onto work-worn hands. Long collarbones. He found himself absentmindedly tracing a fingertip across the file in front of him, his mouth hanging open slightly. He felt Michonne's eyes on him, and looked down at a grainy still of Merle in the car that had been taken from the liquor store's camera.

"You're right, Rick," Michonne eventually sighed. "There's nothing conclusive here. No other fingerprints in the car asides from Merle's and the victim's, and nobody else on camera. Whoever did this came and went in a whisper. But no way was this investigated properly. They took one look at Merle on those cameras, and made their minds up. And it's wrong, it is, but you know that a prostitute's murder isn't going to warrant the same resources as some church-going little blonde girl."

"But you think it's worth investigating further?" Rick asked. "You agree that they were too quick to put Merle away for this, right?"

"Hand on heart? If it had been me on the job, I can't say I wouldn't have at least brought Merle in for questioning." She flicked through the last two pages. "There was part of a footprint found."

"Yeah. From a standard work boot. They said it was only a partial print, not enough to determine what size it was. But hell, half the men around here wear the same kind, Michonne. Merle Dixon, me..."

Daryl, Rick thought.

"And the type of knife used can't be determined, either, apparently." Michonne slammed her hand down on the file. "Jesus Christ, Rick. We used to investigate shit. So I transfer, and you end up in a coma and what? Good old-fashioned police work goes down the drain?"

"So you can see why I feel like I need to do something to put things right," Rick said.

Michonne smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

"You always do, Rick. And you'll find a way. I wish I had the time to help, but..."

"It's okay," Rick replied. "Like you say, I'll find a way."

Michonne gave him that old familiar side-eye.

"You sound like you have a plan. I can practically hear the cogs in your brain whirring. So what is it? Have you magicked up a witness from somewhere?"

"Nothing like that, Michonne."

She exhaled, clearly waiting for him to say something. After all, there was little that he hadn't shared with her over the past few years, but when it came to this, he could only disappoint her. He gave a shrug, hoping she'd drop the subject.

"You'll tell me in good time," she relented.

Rick wasn't sure he would.

=

Daryl was smiling – a proper smile that showed off strong teeth and long cuspids. It was a rare sight, that smile, but it made Rick's own face light up, even though he was being mocked.

"Ya went ta a library?" Daryl said mirthf ully, sitting down onto his bed, the springs sinking down with his weight.

Rick was at the table, facing Daryl, wanting to get his story out as quickly as possible in case things started happening. Daryl was in bare feet and a black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off; some motorcycle shop's logo across its chest. In contrast, Rick felt like a middle-aged father at a suburban barbecue in his button down shirt and pale blue jeans.

"I spoke to my old partner about the case," Rick explained, seeing Daryl's brow furrow. "Look, I know you wouldn't have wanted me to talk about it to someone else, but she's honest and discreet, and I trust her more than anyone else I've ever met."

"She?" Daryl's voice caught in his throat.

"Yeah, she. And let me tell you, she's braver and stronger than any other cop I've ever worked with." Rick paused. "She's heard of Merle."

"Most cops have. 'Spose she thinks he did it, huh."

"She thinks that I have good cause to look into it all a little deeper."

"Oh," Daryl tried to hide his surprise, but failed.

"We're not all bad," Rick said firmly.

"Guess not," Daryl mused. "But I'm guessin' that she didn't come up with anythin' ta help."

"She and I went through the file again, but nothing jumped out."

"So she ain't goin' ta waste any more of her time, right?" Daryl shook his head. "Pfft, typical."

Rick felt a flicker of anger pulsate in his belly and head. He would kill anyone to defend Michonne, and Daryl Dixon was no exception.

"Don't talk about her like that," he warned. "She'd help if she could, I don't doubt it, but she's been through more crap than probably you or me put together."

"Can't see how," Daryl drawled, and Rick didn't know whether it was his anger or the fact that he found himself wanting to tell Daryl everything and anything that had the words coming from his mouth.

"She has," Rick repeated. "She had a boyfriend, Mike. And a kid with him. Little Andre, cutest fucking little boy you could imagine. He was everything to the two of them, and Mike had been sober for as long as I'd known him. But then his cousin came back onto the scene, and Mike... well, I guess he got tempted. I guess he thought that he'd handle it okay. They went out drinking and fuck knows what else one afternoon. Mike went to collect Andre from nursery afterwards anyway, all fucked up. Drunk, high... they said his car didn't stand a chance. Mike ran a red light and a truck came and -"

"Ya don't need ta finish, Rick." Daryl looked genuinely horrified, and the snarky tone had disappeared from his voice.

"Her boyfriend and son, just wiped out in one go, on a quiet Thursday afternoon." Rick failed to keep the shake from his voice.

"Sorry man. That's some bad shit," Daryl rasped.

Rick felt his eyes sting, remembering the funeral; Michonne's screams and how he had held onto her as she had collapsed onto her knees on the floor, her family crowding around her but her arms reaching out for him, the person she trusted more than anyone else. She hadn't been the same since. I mean fuck, how could you be? Hating and grieving Mike all at the same time as dealing with the loss of a child.

"I saw Mike," Rick heard himself say. He hadn't planned to say it out loud, but here he was, biting his nails nervously and recalling the day in the diner when Mike had been right there as if he was flesh and blood. "In a diner with Michonne a few days ago. And I don't want to fucking see him, Daryl. I can just about cope with this bridge thing – but Mike? If he was still alive, I'd kill him with my bare hands for what he did to Andre and Michonne. Andre used to come to my house for ice cream, you know? I don't fucking like cookie dough but I used to buy it for him and when I moved out of me and Lori's, there was still a tub of the fucking stuff in the freezer, and..."

Rick put his head in his hands, tugging at his curls in grief, anger and frustration. When he looked back up, Daryl was watching him, silent and still; as if he could sense that he didn't need to do anything but let Rick talk.

"I don't want to see him," Rick repeated. "If he's trying to make contact, I don't want to know. I won't be the one to tell Michonne that he's still around."

"Ya can't help all of them," Daryl eventually said. "Ya'd drive yerself crazy if ya tried. An' the longer ya have this ability, Rick, the more of them yer gonna come inta contact with every fuckin' day. It's like everythin' else in this fucked up world – ya gotta pick yer battles."

Rick swallowed, rubbing his eyes and wiping his nose quickly. He nodded, pushing thoughts of Mike out of his mind as best he could.

"In time, I'll have to deal with seeing him," Rick sighed, his voice becoming firmer. "But right now, I'm focusing on Lydia and your brother."

Daryl leant back on his elbows, elongating his body. His eyes were shadowed as always, and his hair needed a wash. Rick noticed little things like that about him. Like he noticed a closed-over hole in his left earlobe where he'd obviously once had a piercing, dirt under his fingernails, and the indentation of a head on Daryl's pillow.

"Ya can talk about yer partner if ya want," Daryl shrugged. "I ain't stoppin' ya from gettin' shit off yer chest."

"I can't. I'd rather focus on Lydia."

"Okay."

Rick relaxed his shoulders as he began to speak, grateful to have gotten things off his chest.

"So I went into the paranormal section of the library, did some research," he confessed, waiting for the inevitable laughter. Daryl didn't disappoint, his face reddening as he giggled, and for the first time Rick realised that Daryl had been drinking.

"Research on what?" Daryl fumbled amidst the mess of blankets on his bed and fished out a bottle of Jameson. He offered the bottle to Rick, but Rick shook his head.

"I'm working tomorrow."

"Pfft," Daryl took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. Rick watched him drink; Daryl was looser, more talkative with a drink in him, but Rick had spent his career knowing when a man was the type of person to be tipped over the edge by booze. And Dixon definitely was. Rick could smell the threat of harsh words and violence from men like that, but somehow he could tell that that wasn't going to happen. Not tonight, anyway.

"What did ya research?" Daryl chastised. "Ghouls an' goblins an'..."

"How to communicate with them," Rick interrupted. "Properly. We're not going to get Merle's name cleared by conventional means. I have to talk to Lydia."

Daryl sat back up, crossing his arms and leaning forward.

"So what did ya come up with?"

Rick swallowed, aware of how ridiculous what he was about to say was.

"Automatic writing. It's when..."

"I know what it is," Daryl interrupted. "Ya write subconsciously, as if some supernatural force is doin' it."

"I feel from your tone of voice that you don't think it's worth a try."

Daryl stood up, walking over and sitting down at the table to face Rick. Rick smelt alcohol on his breath, Daryl leant so close that he could feel the warm boozy breath on his arm.

"All that shit is jus' Victorian parlor games, Rick. That an' ouija boards, it's all bullshit."

Rick dipped his head, feeling embarrassed and foolish. He'd thought that Daryl would have been impressed, that he would have commended Rick for at least trying to come up with something different.

"I'm still learning," Rick snapped, as Daryl held in barely concealed laughter. "I'm fucking doing this for your brother, in case you've forgotten."

Daryl had the grace to look guilty, and he screwed the top back onto the bottle.

"'M sorry. Keep forgettin' that yer new ta all this. Was a good idea, Rick, okay? But this thing we have? Ya can't learn it. An' definitely not from books. Wish it was different, wish ya could sit down right now with a pen an' paper an' let Lydia tell us what she wants ta, but shit don't work like that."

Rick thought of the notepad and pencil that was in the glovebox of his car. Yeah, maybe it had been a ridiculous idea, but he was desperate. He glanced out of the trailer window, seeing a thin figure with long dark hair suddenly appear, then disappear amidst the thick trees.

"She's outside," he said, almost to himself more than Daryl.

"Yeah," Daryl nodded. "She's been out there once or twice. She ain't had no interest in talkin' ta me, though."

"I get that the writing thing was a bad idea," Rick relented. "But I thought for sure that ouija boards were real. Maybe The Exorcist fucked me up more than I thought – even though I was a grown man when I saw it."

"It's gonna come, Rick," Daryl said reassuringly. "The other week at Aaron's? Ya didn't speak ta his boyfriend either, but ya could see him, an' ya knew what ta say. Ya got a sense of what message needed ta be passed on."

"I've been meaning to ask you about all of that," Rick pondered. "How comes you couldn't see him and I could?"

"Guess he didn't want ta appear to me." Daryl shrugged.

"Why?"

"Hell, I don't know, Rick." Daryl was slurring slightly. "But people like him maybe don't like people like me. Ya see their house? They were rich, educated. Don't have ta be alive ta judge someone like me walkin' inta yer house. Guess someone like that is goin' ta be more open ta showin' themselves ta a cop an' not some redneck asshole."

"For the record, I don't think you're a redneck asshole," Rick told Daryl gruffly.

"An' I don't think that... ya know."

Daryl looked up shyly, and Rick felt his face flush at the same time Daryl's did. Daryl reached out for the bottle, and Rick saw the hair on his underarms; smelt the scent of cheap deodorant. Rick shifted in his seat, his breath quickening and his body feeling like it was throbbing.

"Fuck it," he blurted out. "Maybe a shot of Jameson would do me some good."

"I'm out of glasses again," Daryl said, holding the bottle out for Rick to take, like it was a dare. Rick accepted it, his fingers touching Daryl's. His hands shook as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. It burnt, like it always did – Rick wasn't much of a liquor drinker, but damn if Daryl Dixon didn't make it look good.

"Tut tut, Officer," Daryl mocked. "On a school night?"

Rick licked his lips, noticing that Daryl's eyes followed his tongue.

"Could take a sick day," he smiled. "Since I got shot, they bend over backwards to make sure I'm alright. Maybe tomorrow I'm feeling a little off-colour."

Maybe tomorrow I'll stay home and jerk off.

"Yer too straight-laced to play hooky," Daryl said hoarsely.

Rick looked down at his boring clothes, still tasting whiskey on his tongue. He saw Daryl wrap his hands around the bottle, but Rick did the same in a strange tug-of-war, making Daryl release his grip. Rick kept on drinking, feeling brave enough to taunt Daryl with the bottle, snatching it away from his fingers at the last second until Daryl wrapped his hand around Rick's wrist at one point, so he could wrench the bottle back. After that, they took turns, and Rick enjoyed the warm buzz in his stomach and the soothing sensation in his brain as the alcohol began to kick in.

"I'm not straight-laced," Rick eventually said in a low voice. "I know what you think of me, but if there's one thing I'm not..."

Rick heard Daryl's breath catch in his throat. Suddenly the heat in the trailer was stifling; the smell of whiskey and Virginia Slims (Daryl's mom again) thick and heavy in the air. Rick felt like he couldn't breathe, but not because of the smells or the heat or the booze – because of whatever was making his chest feel tight and his stomach heavy. The curve of Daryl's bicep, the frayed material of his black t-shirt that was now charcoal through wear and tear, the curls at his neck; damp brown hair that hadn't been cut in months.

Daryl pursed his lips to exhale. Thin pinkness.

Christ, Rick thought.

His heart was pounding. Thud thud thud.

"Why are ya not?" Daryl asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Tell me what – or who - is in this trailer and I'll tell you why," Rick ventured, emboldened by the pathetic amount he had drank.

Daryl raised his arms behind his head, and Rick groaned inwardly.

"Because -"

Rick paused, hearing a scraping noise on his right hand side. He turned his head, holding his breath as he watched something form in the dirt on the outside of the trailer window. It was as if a finger was drawing on the other side, unseen.

Rick stood up, peering out of the window to see if Lydia was still there. She wasn't.

"It's her," Rick said, realising he felt irritated by the interruption, but just as quickly pushing the feeling away.

"Oh it's her, alright," Daryl agreed.

The glass squeaked as the invisible finger began to draw – first a semi-circle at the top, but with a more jagged edge at the bottom. Rick didn't dare breathe as the shape formed, lest Lydia stopped and her drawing remained unfinished.

"Is it a -" he began.

The drawing continued, until soon the shape had Xs where a person's eyes might be; a straight line forming its mouth.

"A face," Rick said firmly. "She's drawn a fucking face, right?"

"Barely," Daryl sneered.

"That's who killed her," Rick clenched his fist. "She's trying to show us who killed her."

Daryl hovered behind him, heat radiating off his body.

"That ain't no-one, Rick," he shook his head. "Just a kid's drawing. Barely looks like anythin'. Yer seein' a face 'cause ya want ta see one."

"It's a face," Rick said firmly, tracing the shape with a finger.

They both sat back down, their breathing returning to a regular pace. Daryl leant back, stifling a chuckle.

"What?" Rick felt slightly offended by Daryl's mirth.

"Ya don't think that with all yer talk of automatic writin', she wasn't havin' her fun with ya by drawin' on the window?" Daryl mocked.

"You think that's what it was?"

"Hell, I don't know. It's like I told ya, all that shit is hokum. Jus' got ta give the dead ones time to work out how ta speak ta us themselves."

"And Lydia's done that," Rick maintained.

"Maybe," Daryl relented. "But ya still ain't got shit ta go on."

Rick picked up the bottle again, taking a swig and noticing Daryl's raised eyebrow as he did so. Was it surprise? Or respect?

"One of the times I saw her, she was moving a hand up and down her face," Rick mused. "Could there be someone with something on their face? A scar? Or a distinguishing feature?"

Daryl took the bottle back off him, his lips wrapped firmly around the rim where Rick's had just been, a sight that made Rick's stomach clench.

The cupboard doors began to open and slam shut. Rick stared at Daryl, but gave no sign that it bothered him as the smack of wood against wood boomed around the trailer.

"Ya got ta figure that out yerself, Rick Grimes," Daryl said, ignoring the commotion. "I ain't the one that's a cop."

Daryl handed the bottle back, and Rick watched as the door handle moved furiously up and down, as if it was locked and someone was desperately trying to get in. He and Daryl remained oddly calm, looking at one another as if daring the other to get frightened.

"Tell me what's in this trailer," Rick demanded.

Daryl licked his lips.

"My demons."

Chapter Text

Different/Life stages/Too soft/Pain in the ass spook/An admission

Merle was getting more muscular during his time in prison, Daryl noticed, as he sat opposite his brother. Merle's arms were long and sinewy; his neck thick. Daryl guessed there wasn't much else for Merle to do in there apart from work out - and without the same access to drugs and alcohol, Merle's face was less sallow and sunken – although Daryl didn't doubt that Merle was probably still managing to get his hands on some.

Daryl didn't slink down in his seat when he sat in the prison's visiting room anymore. If anything, it bored him these days to hear Merle rail on and on about how bad the food was, how much his fellow inmates bugged him, how badly the guards supposedly treated him. The way he complained about the meals he was given, you'd have thought that Merle had dined like a king on the outside; not on squirrel, and out of date canned goods.

Today he was complaining about the texture of the toilet paper, before he leant forward, jabbing his thick forefinger against the table. His voice was hushed as he spoke.

"I hear there's been a cop snoopin' inta my case."

Daryl kept his voice steady, hoping there wasn't a guilty expression on his face.

"What ya talkin' about?" he asked, nonchalantly.

"That Grimes prick."

Daryl couldn't help but give a surprised intake of air as Merle said Rick's name.

"What makes ya think that?" Daryl managed to rasp.

Merle sucked his teeth and laughed wryly.

"What, ya think people in here don't talk?" He crossed his fingers and held them up. "Ya think the guards ain't like that with some of the inmates? We ain't got shit ta do in here asides from chit chat about our cases, an' about people on the outside. An' ol' Merle hears it all, yes he does."

"Why do you think this cop's looking into it?" Inwardly, Daryl felt panicked. He hoped he wasn't visibly squirming.

"Hell if I know, brother," Merle replied, to Daryl's relief. "But I ain't never trusted a cop before an' I ain't goin' ta start now. Ya heard anythin' about any of this?"

"Naw, Merle. How could I?" Daryl snorted. "Ya think I run in those kinda circles, huh?"

Merle grinned.

"Yer right, Darlene, no-one like that would notice ya existed. Or care," Merle couldn't help from adding cruelly.

Daryl bit down hard onto his lip and dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand. He wanted to shout in Merle's face that he was fucking wrong, but of course he couldn't. You don't deserve Rick's help, he thought; immediately feeling guilty because Merle was blood, and Rick... well, Rick wasn't anything. But he didn't speak, because he realised he had nothing to say to his brother.

As always, Merle couldn't bear the silence.

"What's going on with ya, Darlene?" His voice was low and suspicious.

"Nothin'. What do ya mean?"

"Ya seem different."

"Different how?" Daryl clenched the sides of his chair, as if he was stopping himself from getting up and leaving. He hated when Merle was like this, acting like he knew everything, like he was on the verge of telling Daryl all the things he had been getting up to with Rick Grimes.

"Man, I don't know," Merle licked his lips with a slobbery smacking noise. "Ya ain't as hunched over an' pathetic as ya normally are. Ya gettin' some, little bro? Ya found someone desperate who's lettin' ya stick that excuse of a dick in them? Ya got enough money fer a hooker at last?"

Merle sat back, laughing at his sorry excuse for a joke. Daryl sat up straight, staring back, knowing his blue eyes could be as cold as Merle and his daddy's were. He had the sudden realisation that he didn't like Merle. Loved him, because he was his kin and he had to, but like? What was there to like?

"Mean it, somethin's goin' on with ya, bro," Merle persisted, and Daryl sensed the volatility of the moment. When Merle didn't get the answer he wanted, he tended to get mad.

If Merle had still been on the outside, Daryl never could have associated with the likes of Rick Grimes, he thought. Never could have helped people in an honest way. Sitting there with Merle waiting for a response that Daryl wasn't prepared to give, it became crystal clear why he had taken off to Savannah and away from all of this.

"Ain't nothin' goin' on, Merle," the lie spilled from his mouth easily. "I ain't interestin' enough, right?"

=

Daryl rolled moonshine around his mouth, grateful that he still had an acquaintance that sold him that shit when he was broke and in need of a drink. Fucking Grimes had swallowed down the rest of his bottle of Jameson that last time, and as Daryl wrapped his lips around the bottle, he thought of Rick's tongue pressing against the rim of the bottle of whiskey. Greedy asshole. If Daryl hadn't been so in need of booze after visiting Merle, he'd have almost felt impressed about the cop's ability to keep up with him.

"Ya think I don't know that yer the one who's been in the trailer?" he shouted into thin air, cracking noises under his feet as he trod over old newspapers, broken glass, rusted empty beer cans. The house smelt of damp now, but it was no more unpleasant than its former scent of stale smoke and body odour. "Ya think yer scarin' me, ya prick? 'Cause y'ain't. Them days are over, old man."

It had been a year or more since Daryl had last set foot in the small, ramshackle house where he had grown up. He hated everything about the place, even the ride here, where he saw old nooses hanging from trees, visible to only him. It was the foreboding place where he had hidden from his daddy. Where he had felt fists and belts against his skin; had angry, evil words spat into his ear about how worthless and disgusting he was.

Some days, maybe even most days, he still believed those words.

He paced around the living room, swigging the moonshine, kicking at the stained green chair that still bore the imprint of his daddy's sweaty, filthy body. He could visualise the old man sitting there – beer belly, Budweiser cap, dirty vest that was stained grey when once it had been white.

"Yeah, yer so brave, ain't ya?" Daryl railed. "Ya ain't ever showed yer face ta me, ya jus' play yer games. I ain't frightened of ya no more."

Seven. He'd been told to stop crying over his mom's death. Women will come an' go, ya'll learn that, his daddy had said. They're all bitches, see, an' yer ma was the biggest one of all. An' stupid as all hell. No-one smart ever burned themselves ta death, Daryl. So get over it, an' fast. It's bad enough that I'm stuck with ya now. After, it was just him, his daddy and Merle. Merle's mom was alive, at least they all assumed so, seeing as nobody had seen her for a decade by that point. She went from trailer to trailer, husband to husband, addiction to addiction. Daryl had never met his half-brother's mom, but if Merle had chosen to stay with Will Dixon the last time she had split, she must have been bad.

Daryl stared at the painting of the cowboy that had hung on the wall since before he had been born. He hated that fucking thing. It had always been right above the television, his eye constantly drawn to it. It was vaguely depressing with its bleak dusty landscape and muted colours; the cowboy's thick, denim-clad thighs making him confused as fuck as he'd entered his teenage years. As he stared resentfully at it, he thought of bow-legs, and felt his face flush.

14. It's about time you popped yer cherry, Merle had persistently said. Since his last stint in juvie, he'd done nothing but drink and bring home various strippers and bar-tenders, and wanted Daryl to experience the things he enjoyed so much. Daryl had already gotten the drinking bit sorted – the rest he had no interest in. What he was interested in was something he could never tell anyone – ever. It had been one of Merle's friends first, their tanned arms and thick black stubble. Then a few actors on the old movies his daddy watched. Then, as his hormones really kicked in, anyone. Merle arranged for a prostitute to come visit him, but his daddy had been as drunk as Daryl had ever seen him that day, and he'd beaten Daryl so badly around the stomach and head that Merle had told her Another time, sweetheart. My old man's on the rampage again an' my little brother's so beat up that not even you could get a hard-on outta him. It was the only time that Daryl had ever felt glad to have borne the brunt of his daddy's temper.

Merle had never tried to get one of his girls to come to the house to fuck Daryl again. He was a belligerent asshole, but perceptive with it, too. As he got older, it was something that remained unspoken between them, when they were on their own together anyway. When they were with the kind of folks Merle knew, he'd make jibes about Daryl being a virgin, about him being scared of women, about him not having any balls, either metaphorically or literally.

Daryl pulled at a damp, peeling piece of wallpaper, and it all but disintegrated in his hand. It was floral, in sickly orange, brown and yellow; the wallpaper that had been there since the 1950s when he'd been made to stand facing it on multiple occasions for some perceived bad behavior. He'd be willing to bet that Rick Grimes hadn't grown up in a shithole like this. No, he'd have had a comfortable bed, three square meals a day, stories at bedtime and church on a Sunday.

But why was he thinking about Rick Grimes right now anyway? Then again, thinking about him was like a big fuck you to his daddy and all the disgusting things he had ever said about what should happen to a certain kind of man.

"Ya don't like it, do ya?" Daryl yelled. "Me an' him in the trailer. Ya can't stand what I am, an' ya think there's somethin' goin' on. Well let me tell ya, there ain't shit goin' on. Not with him, not ever."

21. He'd ridden his motorbike into a tree. To this day, Daryl didn't know if he'd done it on purpose. Tired of seeing dead ones, tired of his daddy's beatings, tired of the things he thought about – about what he wanted to do, and wanted done to him. He'd crashed, totalled the bike, lain there for a whole afternoon before his daddy and Merle had found him by chance on their way back from a hunt – because they sure as fuck hadn't gone looking for him. Uneducated, or uncaring, they'd lifted him up, taken his helmet off to find him laughing and screaming maniacially, blood all over his face, spitting it out of his mouth onto Merle's shirt, babbling incoherently about ghosts and suicide, the bike breaking, how he was all wrong. He'd been so fucked up that he'd freaked the hell out of Merle and his daddy that day – and Will Dixon had never laid a finger on him again.

Nature had been steadily reclaiming the house, Daryl was pleased to see, as he walked into what had been his daddy's bedroom. Roaches, damp stains, and weeds growing through the walls and floor, giving the place a green tinge that matched the blue of the mould. Something in the corner had crawled there to die; its greyish fur covered with buzzing flies. Daryl put a hand over his nose, glancing at the dead moths and dust on top of a chest of drawers. One drawer was slightly opened, bulging with old clothes – checked shirts and threadbare socks. Daryl gave them a finger as he went back into the lounge, where he kept on drinking.

28. He had slashed his wrists when he was all fucked up on whatever pills Merle had pressed onto his tongue. That was after finding himself on his knees in a grubby bathroom stall of some dive bar. He'd walked outside afterwards, wiping his mouth, his belly churning with self-disgust, when he'd seen his mom standing there. He'd thought it was the pills. When she appeared again the next morning when he was sober and Merle had bandaged him up, he knew it hadn't been.

He'd never meant it, the cutting and the crashing. No matter how fucking awful things ever got, he would never have done that. Maybe he was pathetic, keeping going. Maybe he was pathetic, letting it briefly cross his mind that things would be better if he just didn't exist. During the times that he couldn't manage to drag himself out of bed in the mornings, Merle had always been there to whip the sheets off him (the times that they had sheets), grab his arm and pull him onto his feet.

35. Merle and him had done what they wanted. No, they had done what Merle wanted. It was bad but it was better.

Daryl sat outside in the dirt, letting the moonshine burn his insides. He thought about how if he drank enough of that shit, he could burn this place down, but that was a plan for another time. Maybe Merle would want to come back here some day, when he got out. If he ever got out. Rick Grimes was trying his best, Daryl didn't doubt that, but it was going nowhere. Rick had given him stupid, pointless hope that Merle would be proven innocent. Given him stupid, pointless hope that...

No. Daryl was better off on his own. He wasn't good for anyone. Not even himself. Coming back here reminded him of that.

42. A year ago. Daryl still wasn't thinking about that.

=

Daryl had ridden his bike fucked up enough times in his life to not crash as he rode back to the trailer, still simmering with rage at the memories of his daddy. And this time was about as fucked up as he'd ever been, the moonshine and his demons doing their job well. No good ever came of visiting that house. What did he expect? Absolution? Because he didn't need it. He didn't feel guilty, not one bit.

Still, being at the house always reminded him of how much of a nobody he was. Since he was old enough to understand, that's all he had ever been told. And people like Rick Grimes were probably laughing at him, his drunken brain told him. Rick Grimes pretending to be doing all of this for Merle when he was probably just wanting a promotion; wanting to be a big hero down at the station.

As he rode along the path up to the trailer, too fast like always, he hated the part of his brain that hoped a blue Toyota would be parked outside, like it had been more and more regularly. He hated it so much that when he did see the car, rage threatened to overwhelm him. There was the smell of thunder in the air, just like his mood. People like Rick Grimes looked down on folks like him and Lydia. People like Rick Grimes had some kind of fucking savior complex. Help those less well off and thank fuck that you weren't in their shoes. Do-gooding bastards. Patronising fucks. Haircuts and shiny shoes and insincere smiles. None of them had ever come to rescue him when he was hiding under a bed from his daddy and from dead ones.

Rick was sitting on the trailer's step, worn brown boots and aviator shades on, waiting. Waiting for what, Daryl thought. More tips on being a bridge? Because Daryl had told him all he possibly could. Time for Grimes to fuck off and deal with it on his own. He looked down at Rick's boots underneath blue jeans, and a vision of his daddy's cowboy painting popped into his mind.

Rick stood up as Daryl stepped off his bike, trying not to visibly sway. Rick was smiling, a nervous smile. He wrung his hands together, and Daryl looked at the sweat patches under Rick's grey t-shirt. He'd worn it before, he remembered, but it fit better now; Rick filling out when he'd been so skinny when he and Daryl had first met. It was more than meat on his bones, it was skin that was more tan, hair that was thicker and fuller – and a finger that no longer had a ring on it, Daryl noticed, despite his drunkenness.

He didn't speak while he removed his helmet and wheeled the bike to the back of the trailer. He could sense Rick behind him, waiting to talk, and it fucking pissed him off. Rick couldn't keep showing up unannounced. What the fuck did he think he was playing at, anyway? Shouldn't he be at work, providing for his ex-wife and son? Instead he was at the trailer of someone who was in jail for killing a hooker, visiting the supposed killer's brother who was drunk off his ass in the middle of the day so he could cope with his past and the fact he saw dead people everywhere he went. Was Daryl some midlife crisis shit? Some way that Rick was getting over the coma? Go and buy a sports car instead, Daryl thought. Do a skydive. Pierce your ear.

Daryl stood still as he lit a cigarette, still not acknowledging that Rick was in front of him. He heard the crack in Rick's voice as Rick said his name, and looked up as Rick took off his sunglasses, before pushing them up onto his head where they were held in place by his tangle of curls. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his face pinched and stressed.

"Can we talk?" Rick asked, gesturing to the door of the trailer.

"Not inside we can't," Daryl snapped, resolving not to soften despite the expression on Rick's face. No fucking way could he bring Rick Grimes into that trailer, not after he'd just been at his daddy's house shouting abuse at the old man. Who knew what could happen.

"Even for five minutes?" Rick took a step towards Daryl, but Daryl took a step back.

"Why? What do ya want this time?"

Daryl didn't even feel bad about the hurt expression on Rick's face. Maybe this was his chance to get rid of him for good. Because what was this? It wasn't a friendship. It wasn't anything; couldn't be anything.

"Met people like ya before," he said, before Rick could speak. "Ya come here, pretendin' that ya care. Lydia was hookin' an' probably on drugs, too. Why do ya give a shit about someone like her? Or someone like Merle, who dealt drugs an' stole cars an' kicked the shit out of more people than I can count. An' if yer here 'cause ya need ta talk about bein' a bridge, don't waste yer breath. If I knew how ta deal with it, I wouldn't have spent all day with a jar of moonshine in my hand."

"That what's wrong with you?" Rick's brow furrowed.

"Naw. There's plenty wrong with me but that ain't it." All of me is plenty wrong, Daryl thought. Like my nasty Dixon temper that makes me say shit I don't mean.

Rick gave a heavy sigh.

"Look," Rick began. "I didn't come here because of the case, or your brother. I... I just don't want to be in my house right now."

The admission made Rick's voice quiver; made him look down at his feet bashfully. Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek, knowing that he was going to relent. Damn Grimes, with his hangdog demeanour and slightly shaking hands. Rick wiped a hand across his face, and the noise of fingertips against his stubble made Daryl twitch. Merle had always accused him of being too soft, and damn it, if Merle hadn't been right.

"Gettin' worse?"

Rick nodded, leaning against the car hood where Daryl joined him, hoping he didn't stink too badly of cheap hooch.

"It's not that it's threatening, or frightening," Rick shrugged. "But it never stops. The knocking, the noise of footsteps upstairs, or downstairs, depending on where I am. Lights going on and off, doors slamming..."

"Ya ain't seen who's been doin' it?"

"Never. And it's not something I need when I'm meant to be keeping my stress levels down after the coma."

Daryl looked towards the trailer. If Rick set foot inside it, shit could start up again, and he was too drunk and tired to deal with that. Or, Rick could set foot inside and they'd drink some more, and then Daryl would relax back into the seat and start to feel the warmth of Rick's company, like he always did.

"Well, ya can't stay here," he said decisively.

"Why? Because of the stuff that happens in there?"

"Yeah, 'course." Daryl looked at Rick, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. "...What other reason would there be?"

"I don't know," Rick replied, staring back.

"What about yer partner? That prick who threw me in the drunk tank? Or the girl ya used to work with?"

Rick snorted with derision.

"Michonne lives in the city, and you think somebody like Shane would understand?"

"Good point."

"Yeah."

Daryl had dealt with the kind of thing that he suspected was in Rick's house before. He could try and help, he supposed. Ten, fifteen minutes in Rick's home, and he could be back in the trailer to drink the night away.

"Okay," he gestured towards Rick's car. "Let's see what's goin' on there."

"Really?"

"Get in before I change my mind."

=

Daryl felt roasting hot after the car journey, for some reason, but Rick's house was cold, depressing – and Daryl knew what that looked like. It was clean and functional, but Daryl could practically feel the loneliness seep under his skin. There was an old couch and a chair facing the television, an empty beer bottle on the floor and a plate on the coffee table that had congealed food on it.

"I'm renting for now," Rick said apologetically as he lifted up the plate. "I just don't see the point in making this place more homely. Truth be told, I don't know how."

"Yer wife do all of that shit for ya?"

Rick gave a curt nod, and Daryl wondered if his tone had sounded as bitter as it had in his own head. He followed Rick into the kitchen, looking at the cheap brown plastic cupboard doors that were all ajar. The drawers were opened, their contents looking like they had been picked up and dropped back down from a great height.

"Fuck," Rick hissed, gesturing wildly at the cutlery drawer. "Every day, Daryl. I come home to crap like this. It's exhausting."

As if on cue, the kitchen lampshade began to swing and sway wildly; its light flashing on and off in rapid succession. From upstairs came the noise of doors being slammed and a radio somewhere being switched on, a Motley Crue song blaring out. And Daryl fucking hated Motley Crue.

"I'll switch it off," Rick said, and Daryl followed him upstairs.

The radio was in the master bedroom, and Daryl tried not to stare at the navy sheets on the unmade bed, the deodorant can and box of tissues on the nightstand, the white t-shirt lying crumpled on the floor.

He lingered in the doorway as Rick walked into the room and irritably switched off the music. He turned around, looking over as Daryl leant against the doorframe, arms crossed. Daryl saw Rick's gaze flicker from the bed to him, and back again.

"Does it make yer bed a mess too, or is that all you?" Daryl teased, his voice oddly high-pitched.

Rick raised an eyebrow and made a half-hearted attempt at straightening the duvet.

"Find it tough to sleep when the closet door is opening and closing itself," he said wryly, before adding quietly "Still getting used to having a bed to myself too, I guess."

Rick smoothed a hand across the pillow, a wistful look on his face that made Daryl feel heated and uncomfortable. He felt completely sober now, not to mention itchy for another drink, or something to numb his edges.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to bring Rick back to this planet.

"Sorry," Rick said. "I guess bringing you here was pointless, there's really nothing you can do."

Daryl followed him back downstairs and into the kitchen, where Rick offered him a coffee. Daryl refused, but waited while Rick made himself one before sitting down opposite, rubbing his tired eyes.

"I'm trapped," he moaned, and Daryl got the sense that Rick was talking about more than the house. "This was the only place I found that I could afford to rent that was close to work and close to my old place, for Carl." He slammed a hand down on the table angrily. "I don't know, Shane offered me his spare room while I got myself sorted, maybe I should ask him if that offer still stands."

"No," Daryl heard himself blurt out, horrified by the suggestion, and realising that the whole time here, he hadn't seen any dead ones. Not even Lydia. His brow creased as he thought. "Know what I reckon? Ya jus' got yerself a good old-fashioned poltergeist, Rick. Ain't nothin' ta stress about."

Rick's mouth dropped open in surprise, there were even traces of a smile there.

"A poltergeist?" he scratched the back of his head, bemused. "Christ, I'm not going to start hearing shit coming from the television set, am I?"

Daryl groaned.

"Ya watch too many horror movies, man."

"Guilty. Me and Carl love them, except for maybe zombie stuff. He's not so keen. Lori never liked us..." Rick stopped talking, kicking his feet against the leg of the kitchen table, embarrassed to have mentioned his wife, or ex-wife, or whoever the hell she was.

Daryl cleared his throat. For all his bravado, he could tell Grimes was spooked. He seemed more freaked by this place than by the trailer, but then, in the trailer, it was the two of them together. Grimes was used to having a partner, to having someone to have his back, Daryl supposed.

"Ya know that poltergeists are usually just mischief makers, right?" Daryl soothed. "An' what ya have might not even be as strong as that."

"How comes?" Rick asked.

"Well, all the stories I've heard an' read are that poltergeists appear when a child in the house, well, a girl, is reachin' puberty, or has emotional issues, shit like that."

Rick frowned.

"Carl's not a girl and he's only ten, so..."

Daryl felt his eyebrow twitch. He hadn't been suggesting it was caused by Rick's kid, but then, what had he been suggesting? He wasn't quite sure himself.

"Then I don't know, Rick," he shrugged. "It could all be bullshit, but anythin' I've ever read about them says it's ta do with adolescence, new sexuality, ya know." He tried to stop himself from blushing, failed, but saw Rick's eyes widen as if he was realising something.

"Can I stop it?"

"I don't know. Ya finished puberty yet?" Daryl attempted to joke, but Rick didn't say anything. Instead he scraped a stray curl away from his forehead, much to Daryl's displeasure, and stared into the distance.

"I used to have weird dreams in the coma, you know?" Rick's voice was quiet, his hands gripping onto his coffee mug. "People I knew that had passed on, folks I'd arrested... different patterns and colours, even music in my head that I'd never heard before. But nothing I saw when I was in it comes close to how weird my fucking life feels now."

Physical affection was an alien concept to Daryl; he couldn't recall the last time he'd voluntarily touched another human being – but he thought about reaching across the table and patting Rick's thick forearm, maybe offering some reassuring words. He did neither of those things, of course. He didn't want Rick Grimes to flinch, or pull away... or not do either of those things. Best to leave well alone.

"Thanks," Rick suddenly said.

"Fer what?" Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"Just listening," Rick smiled wanly. "I've always been accused of not talking enough, and I figure you're the same – so I like that you're content to let me speak when I actually want to, and not try to offer some bullshit reply just to fill a silence. It's more honest, isn't it, the way we are?"

"I guess," Daryl shrugged. I don't like talking much but I like talking to you. "Hey, guess I will have a coffee if yer still offerin'," he added.

Daryl watched as Rick got up to get another mug, studied his broad back and the thick curls at the nape of his neck. He licked his lips – the smell of the coffee, obviously – and found himself grinning as Rick produced a pack of cookies from the cupboard.

"Forgot I bought these for Carl," Rick beamed. "You want one?"

"Want several," Daryl enthused, and greedily accepted three from Rick's outstretched fingers.

"You got a sweet tooth?" Rick chuckled.

Daryl swallowed, savoring the taste of the chocolate chips.

"Didn't get shit like this growin' up, an' now I can't get enough of it."

They ate and drank in companionable silence, until the creases in Rick's brow eased a little.

"Could be worse, the happenin's in here," Daryl soothed. "Y'ever heard of the Bell Witch?"

Rick set his mug down, interest piqued.

"Think maybe my daddy started to tell me the story when I was younger than Carl, but he stopped when he saw I was getting scared."

"Well," Daryl sat back, happy to tell the tale he knew off by heart. "Back in 1817, in Tennessee, the Bell family started seein' an' hearin' all kinds of weird shit – creatures that looked like dogs, large birds, chains bein' dragged on the floor an' somethin' gnawin' on their beds. The daughter, Betsy, well she got the worst of it – pins stuck in her, her hair pulled, an' her face scratched."

Daryl bit away a smile when he saw Rick's involuntary shiver. He carried on talking, finding he enjoyed it when Rick Grimes was listening intently. Rick's eyes widened at various points in the story, and he gave nods to spur Daryl on, his face falling in disappointment when it finally came to an end.

"Things in this house will calm down, okay Grimes?" Daryl concluded. "It ain't malevolent, it's jus' fuckin' with ya. Maybe a bit pissed yer on its territory. It's a spook, is all. A pain in the ass spook." He paused. "Does it not freak yer kid out?"

"It's not been so bad when he's here," Rick replied. "I can make excuses for the stuff that happens – a noise from outside, or my own absent-mindedness. As long as he doesn't go home and tell his mom that his pop is going crazy."

"He won't. He take everything okay? You an' yer..."

"About as well as any kid takes their parents getting divorced," Rick's expression was pained. "But he's smart, he knows it'll be better in the long run." Rick glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Fuck, sorry, I've kept you here too long with my complaining."

"'S alright. I didn't have nowhere ta be."

"It's late."

"Yuh-huh." Daryl felt his t-shirt damp against his back. Rick was lifting his coffee cup to his mouth as if for something to do, even though Daryl knew it was empty. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"You can stay here, if you want," Rick said hoarsely, before adding quickly "I've got a pillow and blanket I can give you for the couch. The spare room hasn't gotten a bed in it yet. When Carl sleeps over, he stays in my room too, and -"

"I'd prefer a ride back ta my trailer, if that's alright with ya," Daryl replied, not wanting to imagine the blissful torture of lying on the couch here, trying to sleep but being aware of Rick moving, breathing, sleeping in a room above his head, in pyjamas or underwear or nothing, maybe getting up in the middle of the night to take a piss, or padding downstairs for a glass of water. Seeing Daryl shirtless, blankets kicked off, pants opened, and...

As he looked at Rick he felt want and need, but he couldn't do this for Rick. He couldn't be the one to give Rick what he wanted and needed, because Daryl would help him come to terms with being a bridge, but no damn way would he be the one helping Rick come to terms with whatever else they had both realised he was.

=

The moon hung white and fat in the sky as Rick drove them back to the trailer.

"'M sorry for losin' it with ya earlier," Daryl picked at a hole in the knee of his jeans. He wasn't normally given to apologies, but with Rick it seemed easier than normal. "Shitty day."

Rick took his eyes off the road as he glanced at Daryl, his hands steady on the wheel.

"I won't ask if you want to talk about it. Guys like us never do, right?"

"There ain't guys like 'us'," Daryl replied. "Stop talkin' like me an' you are the same."

"Daryl," Rick sighed. "Take away how we grew up and our jobs, and I think we are."

Daryl placed a hand on the door handle, suddenly feeling like he wanted to ask Rick to drop him off at the side of the road instead. He couldn't handle it, this kinship. It was wrong in so many ways, and too fucking complicated for Daryl's brain to comprehend.

"Yer too good ta be around me, Rick Grimes," he rasped. "In fact, ya should jus' stay away from me from now on, okay? Ya'll only end up dead or in trouble. I ain't good news."

"You're full of it," Rick slammed a palm down on the steering wheel. "Nothing I've seen in you says you're bad news. Caring about your brother? Helping the dead ones you see? Helping me?"

"I done some shit," Daryl said, inwardly wondering why he was so determined to push Rick Grimes out of his life. Tonight had been too comfortable, too companionable. It was more terrifying than any dead one he had ever encountered.

"Everyone has." Daryl watched as Rick shrugged, in an I don't care kind of way. And man, Daryl wasn't familiar with that. In his world, everybody knew and cared and had something to say about what you said and did and thought.

"I doubt ya've done what I have," Daryl protested.

Rick turned the wheel, smooth and controlled.

"Even if I haven't," he began. "I don't care what you've done in the past. I know you now, not back then." His voice was flat, calm, neutral.

Daryl finally got it. Rick Grimes was for real. That honesty and sincerity was legit, and Daryl didn't know how to deal with a concept so unfamiliar.

There hadn't been a single bit of judgement this whole time they'd been acquainted, and that made Daryl want to tell Rick things. Things that he'd never said out loud. Things that his daddy had suspected and Merle pretended he didn't know.

That he wanted to fuck men, wanted to be fucked by men, had fucked men.

Wanted to fuck Rick Grimes.

His biggest secret, and all of a sudden he felt the compulsion to tell Rick.

He took a deep breath – and his brain and mouth scrambled.

"I killed my daddy," he said.

Chapter Text

A visit/Friday night/Saturday morning/Needles/A filthy cop/Realisation

Rick stood in front of the station's row of grey filing cabinets, running his finger across the drawer labelled D. It would be so easy to slide the drawer open and trace his hand along the tops of the manila files until he got to the name Dixon. It wasn't an uncommon name, especially not around these parts, but he knew that it wouldn't take long to find a file for Daryl's father, if there was one. Certainly there would be one for Merle, but Daryl? Rick wasn't sure. He hadn't wanted to assume that Daryl had ever been brought in for anything other than when he and Shane had thrown him in the drunk tank.

Rick's shift had ended half an hour ago, and yet here he was, contemplating opening a can of worms that he wasn't quite sure he wanted to open. His life post-coma wasn't meant to have been like this – he had envisioned himself taking up running again, like when he'd been younger, maybe learning how to cook properly or finally re-planting he and Lori's garden. Instead his life was full of divorce, murder charges, spooks in his home, feelings in his head and heart and other places – and Daryl Dixon.

"Man, what the hell is with you?" Shane's voice sounded amused as he stood in the doorway, showered and changed after their shift. "It's Friday night and we're actually leaving early enough to go get a beer. C'mon, get your shit and we could be sitting in front of some cold ones in 20 minutes."

"You go on," Rick told him, not even looking around. "I'm just going to head home."

"What?" Shane snapped. "To a microwave meal and Miami Vice? Dude, you need to get yourself back in the game."

"The game?" Rick finally looked at his partner, Shane's shirt so loosely unbuttoned that Rick could see the redness of his chest after his shower.

"The game," Shane repeated, rubbing his hands together. "Look man, I've been taking it easy with you what with you almost dying on me and your marriage ending and all, but Rick, you need to get laid. Doesn't matter with who. Pick up some skank, get some."

Rick sucked in his cheeks and tried to remain calm. He tugged at his collar, suddenly just wanting a shower and something to eat. Today was another day when he wouldn't look for Dixon Senior's file. Get some? Get some from who? He had no game, never had.

"You know that's not me," he sighed, edging past Shane on his way to the locker room. He could smell strong aftershave from his partner, musky and sharp. Daryl Dixon smelt only of himself.

"Fine," Shane punched Rick's arm lightly. "More ladies for me, then." His face turned serious. "Guess I just miss you, man. Feel like we haven't done shit together the way we used to, before you got shot."

"Things change," Rick replied, trying not to feel guilty. Was true, what Shane was saying. Since they were kids they had done everything together, but it didn't fulfil him anymore. Shane's constant chat of sport and pussy was tiresome, his mouthing off about topics he knew nothing about infuriating. "Next weekend, promise."

"Okay, okay. I'll let you off this time. If you were a chick, I'd swear you were seeing someone behind my back, though."

Rick whirled around.

"What?"

"I'm kidding!" Shane grinned. "You just never seem to be around anymore, is all."

Rick shook his head quickly, as if it would dislodge the reddening of his face. He hadn't been up in Daryl's trailer that much, had he? Enough for Shane to notice his absences?

"Just adjusting to my new life," Rick replied as breezily as he could.

He was glad to see Shane finally walk away, and exhaled when he heard Shane's car starting outside.

Rick changed quickly, wondering what dinner he could make from the meagre groceries he had at home. He contemplated calling Michonne, but there was too much that he was hiding from her these days, and sooner or later she would demand that he would spill.

He stepped out of the station to be met with a soft voice calling his name, and a grey-haired woman stepping towards him, a tray covered with foil in her small hands. Rick broke into a surprised smile, hands on hips as he shook his head in delight.

"Well, well, well," he enthused. "Look who it is."

Carol Peletier approached shyly, her hands trembling a little as she joined Rick's side. Rick barely recognised her with longer hair and eyes that hadn't been blackened by her husband Ed's fists. Rick hadn't seen her since before his coma, but he'd been a frequent visitor to her home when she and Ed's neighbours had called the station to report a domestic incident.

"I could say the same for you, Officer Grimes," she replied gently, her cornflower-blue eyes lighting up as she smiled warmly. Timid as she was, Rick could sense the change in her, and knew that being widowed was the best thing that had ever happened to her. "I was so sorry to hear about what happened, but I've been staying at my sister's for the past few months, so I never got the chance to come visit."

She brandished the tray at him, and Rick accepted it, feeling that it was still warm.

"It's leftovers," she explained. "Nothing fancy, but I heard about... your situation, and I figured it might do you good to have a home-cooked meal at the end of your shift. I guess I lucked out meeting you as you were leaving."

Rick suddenly felt like he could cry at her act of kindness, and he beckoned her over to his car, where he set the tray down onto the hood and removed the foil, uncovering some roast chicken, mashed potato and green beans, along with a plastic fork.

"You've made my day, Mrs Peletier," he said through mouthfuls of buttery vegetables.

"Carol," she corrected. "I think we're at the stage now where you can call me Carol."

"And I'm Rick."

"I was so upset to hear about what happened to you," Carol said, as she proudly watched Rick devour her food. "You were always so good to me – you and Officer Walsh, really – but you were always the one giving me telephone numbers of places that could help me, and I know I never took you up on the offer, I just stayed with Ed, but..."

Rick set his fork down.

"It's easy for people like me to tell abuse victims to leave," he said quietly. "I know that it wasn't so simple for you." With a shiver, he remembered seeing Ed Peletier hours before he'd discovered that Ed had been killed weeks previously.

Carol gave a stern nod, something about her stance becoming smaller in a way that reminded Rick of how Daryl was sometimes, and not for the first time he wondered exactly how bad Daryl's childhood had been.

"Well, that decision was taken out of my hands," she eventually said curtly.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Carol's expression suddenly changed, and she gave a short, but enthused laugh.

"Sorry?" she exclaimed. "I'm not. I was blessed the day that Ed drove into that telegraph pole. I've spent the past few months at my sister's place in Florida sipping cocktails and sunbathing – and trying to forget every single time that bastard laid a hand on me."

Rick wasn't quite sure how to respond, but Carol pointed to the food.

"Finish that, you need feeding up."

"It's damn good," Rick kept eating, Carol leaning against the car as she waited for him to finish.

"A few bits of home cooking doesn't repay you, Rick," she said. "Every time you came to my home, I could sense how angry you were at Ed. I could tell that it was killing you not to be able to knock his teeth out. Oh, how I wish you'd been able to."

"That obvious, huh?" he laughed, before remembering that it hadn't just been Carol that Ed had tormented. "What about your little girl? She good?"

"Getting there. She went through more than any child should," Carol sighed. "It will be better for her in the long run – but damn if I don't still feel like he's in the house sometimes."

"It will take a while for that to fade, I guess."

"I know, I know," Carol took the empty foil tray from Rick. "I need to get rid of some of his things. I burnt all of his clothes, you know. Donated some books and old records to charity – but there's still so much of him there. Crockery we got as a wedding present, weapons he inherited from his father... I just feel like until I remove every trace of that man from my life, I won't ever be free."

Part of Rick considered telling Carol I saw Ed. He's where he died. Stuck there, unhappy. He's the one who won't ever be free. Something even told Rick that if did tell Carol that, she would believe every single word. Instead, he tentatively moved to give her a hug, worried she might flinch away – and briefly, she did – but she accepted his embrace and placed a dry kiss on his cheek.

"I'll bring you some dessert next time, okay?"

"Well I should hope so," Rick teased, rubbing his stomach. "That's the best I've eaten since before I got shot."

Carol bit down a proud smile.

"I make a mean roast chicken. Ed never liked it, but I always knew that he wasn't right about that one."

"Can I make a suggestion?" Rick offered.

"Of course!"

"Get rid of every single trace of Ed from your home," Rick said firmly. "No matter how small. Nobody deserves a fresh start like you do, Carol. And if you ever need a hand doing that, you know where I am."

=

As Rick drove home from the station, it was still warm enough to keep the windows rolled down, and the air felt pleasant against the arm that he let hang outside the car. Daryl had mocked the tan he had on that arm, saying that it just showed he drove around all day eating doughnuts and giving people like him shit.

Rick switched the radio off and let himself think about the last conversation he and Daryl had had, that night he had come to Rick's house and told him the Bell Witch story. Rick had done little else but replay the whole thing in his head ever since.

"Whatever you did, or think you did..."

Daryl bit his thumbnail, shaking his head.

"Ain't no 'think' about it. My daddy is dead as a doornail an' I'm the reason."

Rick tried to keep his composure, along with his eyes on the road. His heart was beating ninety to the dozen, but everything Daryl said was matter-of-fact. 'Stop talking,' he wanted to tell Daryl. 'Please don't put me in a position that I can't face being in. I'm in enough of those already'.

"Daryl, don't..."

"I won't. Already said too much fuckin' stuff I shouldn't be sayin' ta a cop."

"I'm not a cop when I'm with you," Rick's face went scarlet. "I mean, when I'm not on a shift."

"All ya need ta know anyway is that my daddy wasn't a good man. But I'm thinkin' ya don't need me ta tell ya that. Ya can see it in the way that I am. Me, him, Merle, we're all the same."

"Don't tell me, okay?" Rick said quickly. "I don't need to know."

Rick didn't want to know. And it was nothing to do with his job – it was because he didn't want to hear anything that might make him think about Daryl Dixon in any way other than what he did right now. He knew Daryl wasn't an angel, but he didn't want to break the gossamer-thin spell that he felt was growing between them. I killed my daddy whirled around and around inside Rick's head, and sooner or later he was going to have to find out exactly what Daryl had done, but oh God, Rick had dealt with enough lately and the thought of Daryl disappearing from his life made his heart race and his stomach feel like an aching, empty chasm.

He wondered how he had ended up being someone who walked into an empty house on a Friday night. It wasn't his weekend to have Carl, and he felt hollow about the Saturday and Sunday ahead of him. He briefly thought about a jog, but remembered his best running shoes were in his old house.

Rick didn't bother going into the kitchen when he arrived home, instead climbing slowly upstairs and stepping into the shower, where the water ran too hot or too cold concurrently – in this case, he knew it was more the rental house's shoddy plumbing than any entity that was there. He was lonely, he admitted to himself, as she soaped his body with cheap shower gel. He suddenly missed the conditioner of Lori's that he had always snuck a blob of, his fingers getting caught in his hair as he shampooed thanks to the fact that it hadn't been cut in weeks.

His stomach rumbled as he walked naked into the bedroom, but he couldn't face the dark coldness of downstairs, instead choosing to tumble into bed and pull the covers over his damp body. It's best ya don't call over fer a while, was the last thing Daryl had said to him. Rick enjoyed everything about going there, from the simple crackle of the gravel underneath his tyres as he pulled in front of the trailer, to Daryl's gruffness as he shared whatever bottle he was drinking.

"Stop it, please stop it," Rick moaned as he heard relentless rapping at the window. Rat-a-tat-tat-rat-a-tat-tat. "Shut the fuck up!" He shot up, sitting on his knees as he parted the drapes with a fingertip, knowing that nothing would be outside.

"Lydia," he breathed, seeing the girl standing on the lawn below. As soon as her name left his mouth, she vanished.

Rick slid back down into the bed, fighting back tears. He wasn't much of a crier – only succumbing to it in recent times when Carl had first been placed into his arms – but he felt overwhelmed, and found himself wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Silent, constant tears; the reason for which he couldn't quite pin down.

=

Rick cracked two eggs into a pan and poured himself his second coffee of the day. The morning sunshine had lifted his mood, so much so he felt almost ashamed of his emotions the night before. It was natural, he tried to tell himself, after his body and brain had gone through such a trauma. And perhaps he could think about joining Shane in the bar next time, see if he could at least find a woman he liked enough to buy a drink for. Maybe today he could start fixing up the garden a little, if he was going to be here for a while; get outside before it got as hot as he suspected it was going to be. Shane might even be up for some beers later on, if he didn't have some girl to take out to dinner.

Rick heard the toaster pop, burning his fingertips as he lifted the slices out and buttered them, before pouring the creamy scrambled eggs on top. He switched the radio on, feeling more positive about the weekend ahead as he ate. He could pop down to the video store and rent something good, fix the broken drawer in the kitchen, wash and iron his uniform... he could fill his day fine, he could.

The door knocked, and Rick debated whether to pull on a t-shirt or not, deciding against it. It was probably the mailman, and he'd no doubt seen dozens of people shirtless on his rounds.

He opened the door, toast clamped between his teeth and crumbs around his mouth, and immediately took a step back.

"Hope I ain't disturbin' anythin'."

Daryl's motorcycle was parked in the driveway, its owner at the door, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Rick chewed the rest of his toast quickly, swallowing hard and croaking out a hello, his arm crossing against the breadth of his chest self-consciously as he felt Daryl's gaze upon it.

Daryl looked around at the suburban street, looking out of place in his cut-off Motorhead t-shirt, tattooed arms and biker boots.

"Sorry," Rick realised. "Come in, I'm being rude."

Daryl followed him inside, hovering in the hallway. Rick thought of his t-shirt on the back of the kitchen chair, feeling more exposed than he ever had.

"I thought..." he began. "You wanted us to not see each-"

Daryl jingled his keys from his finger, interrupting.

"Ya free today?"

Rick nodded immediately, plans for DIY and movies and gardening forgotten about instantly.

"What you got in mind?"

Daryl smiled and nodded towards Rick's bare chest.

"Get yerself fully dressed, it's over four hours ta Savannah."

=

Rick didn't know why they were going to Savannah, but Daryl had warned him It's haunted as fuck down there, Grimes. Don't be surprised if ya see more than Lydia. So far, as they sped along Route 77, Rick was more focused on clinging onto Daryl's bike. Sweat was rolling off his body thanks to Daryl's body heat, the warm bike, and the sun beating down onto his back.

They stopped once, Daryl buying cigarettes and Rick buying them sodas each, which they guzzled down silently, both parched from the ride. Despite spending the previous two hours hunched up with nervous tension and an excitement that Rick was scared to acknowledge – although Daryl may have felt it – the tightness he always carried in his shoulders had eased, and he almost had a sense of being on vacation.

Climbing back onto the bike, Daryl turned around.

"Ya hangin' in there alright?"

"I'm good."

"Yer white knuckles say different, Grimes."

"I'm more of a car guy, but maybe if you told me why we were going to Savannah..."

"Goin' ta see a friend. She's like us."

She.

Rick didn't answer, but pulled on the spare helmet and encircled Daryl's waist with his arms again as Daryl kicked against the ground and turned back out onto the highway. The rumble of the bike's engine and the sight of Daryl's long arms stretched out towards the handlebars had Rick arching his back and tipping his head back, glad that the helmet hid the blissed-out expression on his face.

His thighs were aching by the time they entered the outskirts of the city, the statues and live oaks signalling that they had almost reached their destination – wherever that was. Eventually, Daryl turned from the main road into a lane that had a line of grass the way down the middle. Each side of the path was overgrown with weeds and trees, obscuring some of the houses. Daryl negotiated the bike past trash cans and old cars, barking dogs on chains and household items like armchairs and refrigerators. This was the kind of place where Rick usually went to make an arrest, but he trusted Daryl not to take them anywhere unsafe, and as he rode on, the grass got thicker but the trash lessened, until they were outside a small little yellow wooden house that had chickens in the front yard and wind chimes tinkling on the porch.

As they dismounted, Rick could smell wild honeysuckle, Daryl's leather jacket, and the cloying, pungent stench of weed. In the distance, a radio was playing a loud Fleetwood Mac song and he could hear what sounded like someone practising on their saxophone.

As Daryl opened the small metal gate that led them into the garden of the yellow house, he turned towards Rick.

"Guess ya should know – she can't hear."

Rick paused in front of a garden bench that was painted a vivid lime green.

"What?"

Daryl pointed towards the house as he walked to the porch.

"Connie. She hit her head when she was a girl. Lost her hearin' but gained another sense instead, or at least, that's how she sees it. She sees more dead ones than you or I put together, an' she takes it all in her stride. She can't hear us but she can hear them, all in her head." He paused, blushing a little. "She's good people. The best."

"High praise," Rick teased. "I wasn't sure you liked anyone."

Daryl raised an eyebrow, his hands fidgeting with his keys as he replied.

"Well I never brought anyone with me on one of my trips down here before, so..."

Rick bit down a smile and waited for Daryl to ring the doorbell. Rick saw a light flash from inside the house, and watched as a shadow emerged behind the stained glass of the front door before it opened to reveal a woman around their age with dark eyes and a head full of glossy black curls. She smiled at Daryl before pulling him into a quick hug, the first time Rick had ever seen him make bodily contact with anyone. Pulling away, she glanced at Rick, her eyes narrowed at first, until Daryl poked a finger against her arm and signed something. Rick tried to hide his surprise at Daryl's previously hidden ability, and he scoffed at Rick's expression.

"What? Ya think I couldn't learn sign language?"

"I..."

"Jus' messin' with ya, Grimes. I'm no expert, as Connie enjoys tellin' me."

"What did you say?"

"I told her ya were a friend."

Rick's chest filled with warmth as Connie opened the door wide and allowed them into her home. Rick had never been in a house like it – each wall was lined with bookshelves or vintage posters, odd little ornaments and knick-knacks, framed paintings and tapestries. Everywhere was painted sunflower yellow or burnt orange or bright turquoise. He could smell incense and spicy cooking, and the furniture was a mish-mash of antique wood and modern, vibrant colours. There was no television in the corner like most homes; instead Rick saw a small table by the window that held a notepad and pen, and several small vials of black liquid.

He sat down onto a purple velvet couch, sinking down into it; its springs having seen better days. Daryl and Connie leant against the table, signing to one another. Even to Rick's untrained eye, he could see that Daryl was slow, slightly unsure. It was then that he realised that the notepad and pen was for some trickier words; Daryl scribbling out sentences in a large, messy scrawl.

"Connie must be the perfect friend for you," Rick commented, watching as she went into the kitchen, emerging with a large wooden box.

"Huh?" Daryl crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "How comes?"

"'Cause she doesn't speak," Rick smirked, only to be met with a lingering stare.

"Ya don't talk much yerself, Grimes," Daryl rasped, turning back to Connie and sitting down at the table. He took his leather jacket off, throwing it onto the floor and exposing his long arms.

When Connie removed the khaki jacket she was wearing, revealing a black vest top, Rick saw that her arms and hands were peppered with the same small black tattoos that Daryl had, except in a much larger amount. Rick saw strange little drawings, circles and crosses, a paw print, suns and crescent moons, a skull, a witch's hat, swirls and letters and symbols.

There was a clinking noise as Connie opened the box she had brought in from the kitchen, and Rick watched as she methodically laid out several items – paper towels, a small bottle of what appeared to be some kind of spray – and a tattoo gun.

"That why we're here?" Rick asked, and Daryl shrugged.

"Jus' somethin' she does when I visit," he replied, signing something to Connie that made her grin. Rick tried not to feel paranoid, but it was tough when he couldn't see what Daryl was writing, or decipher what his hands and fingers were doing. At one point, Connie turned to Rick, looking him up and down studiously before turning back to face Daryl. Rick couldn't stop himself from going red under the intensity of her knowing gaze.

Rick sat back and watched her clean Daryl's bicep before dipping one of the needles into a vial that Rick now realised held tattoo ink. The buzz of the gun was louder than he had imagined it would be.

"What did you ask her to tattoo on you?" he asked over the noise.

"I didn't," Daryl replied. "Never do. Jus' trust her ta put somethin' on me of her choosin'."

Daryl already had a black tattoo on the inside of his bicep – a plain black cloud that looked several years old. Rick wondered if Connie had done that one too.

Rick shifted in his seat as he watched Daryl's eyes squeeze shut when the needle first pierced his flesh. Daryl gave a short grunt, letting his head fall back, and Rick felt sweat bead on his top lip. Connie was bent over Daryl's body, working quickly and diligently as she ran the needle across his skin. Suddenly, Rick wanted to be in that chair, feeling the sting of it. He needed pain, or something to take the edge off whatever he was feeling right now.

The buzzing ceased, and Connie sat back, admiring her handiwork with a smile. Daryl opened his eyes and looked down at his arm.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, signing the words to Connie as he spoke.

Rick gave it a few moments before standing up and peering over Connie's head. She had tattooed several broken lines coming out of the black cloud – rays of sun.

"What does it mean?" Rick asked, and Daryl shrugged, allowing Connie to wipe his arm down and smooth on some cream.

"My natural sunny fuckin' disposition," Daryl tried to joke, but Connie signed something, and Rick knew that Daryl knew exactly why she had tattooed what she had.

Daryl stood up, his body smelling of the sweat caused by adrenalin and the afternoon sun. Connie rapped her knuckles against the table to get his attention, and he turned to face her.

"Sorry," he mouthed, signing, watching Connie's hands intently. Rick didn't need to learn sign language to know what she was asking – she was pointing at him and holding up a fresh needle.

"Want me ta tell her ya ain't interested?" Daryl asked.

Rick put his hands on his hips and faced Daryl. You don't know me at all. But then why would you? I don't know myself anymore, he thought.

"I'm interested."

Daryl snorted with laughter, nudging Connie and giving a nod. She broke into a wide smile, and Rick felt a flicker of something in his stomach at how pretty she was.

"What will she tattoo on me?" he asked, as Connie maneuvered him into the chair. "Don't I get to choose from a picture or something?"

"Not here," Daryl smirked. "Connie will give ya whatever she sees in ya on any given day."

Rick rolled his shirt sleeve up, wondering who the hell he was these days as Connie wiped his bicep with a damp paper towel that smelt strongly of antiseptic. She looked him up and down like she had earlier, narrowing her eyes and then reaching out to touch the side of his face lightly. Rick held his breath as he met Daryl's eyes behind her head, not knowing who was intruding on who in this scenario.

As Connie patted Rick's knee reassuringly, he heard a dry laugh, and tilted his head to glare at Daryl.

"Ya look shit-scared."

"It's a big fucking needle!" he argued, wincing as he watched Connie dip the said object into the ink.

"Ya've been in a coma, weren't there plenty of needles then?"

"I was unconscious," Rick snapped. "That's sort of what being in a coma is."

"Whatever, pussy."

Connie's dark eyes looked up at Rick, a smile darting across her lips; it was clear that while she couldn't hear them, she could tell from their body language that they were bickering. Her hands were cool as she grabbed Rick's wrist to prevent him from moving about, raising an eyebrow.

"Ready," Rick mouthed, giving her a nod.

He winced at the first touch of the needle, taking a few moments to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. It wasn't as bad as he had feared at first, but the needle dug in, touching a nerve, and he bit down onto his lip to stop himself from twitching in the chair. Daryl was still standing behind Connie, arms crossed, his chest rising and falling as he watched.

"Goin' ta start ta smart some," Daryl half-whispered.

Rick arched his back as he felt it start to really hurt. It felt like his skin was burning, like he was being stabbed by fire. He rode out the pain, until suddenly he felt himself relax, almost enjoying the hot ache of the needle; there was something deeply pleasurable about the piercing sting of it, a delicious agony that he could understand being addicted to. His stomach felt lower than it had ever been, his thighs twitched, and a tingle was travelling from the small of his back downward.

And all the while, Daryl Dixon watched.

Connie finally lifted the needle and gave Rick the thumbs-up. He immediately looked down at her handiwork and saw a mountain tattoo on his bicep. His skin was red and raised, but he could see the delicate, detailed work Connie had done; the jagged peak and flecks of snow.

"So that's what you see in me?" he said slowly, enabling her to lip-read.

Connie nodded.

"What does it mean?"

She smiled knowingly, but gave a small shrug.

"She ain't goin' ta tell ya," Daryl told him. "Jus' draws what she sees an' that's that."

=

Connie made them dinner, the table covered in quesadillas, rice, tortillas, salads.

"She's half-Mexican," Daryl explained as he loaded a tortilla with chicken. "I never ate shit like this in my life until I met her. Now it's all I fuckin' think about since I left Savannah."

"You miss it down here," Rick said, more of a statement than a question.

"Have ta be nearer ta Atlanta right now," Daryl shrugged, and Rick knew not to press the matter. He could see why Daryl had escaped down here before Merle had gone to prison. It was warm, vibrant, unusual and exciting. The wind chimes on Connie's porch tinkled, and from somewhere outside there was the sound of drum beats. He hadn't seen anyone like Lydia yet, but being here with two people who saw the same things as he did made him feel calm about the prospect.

As they ate, Rick found that he was able to follow the conversation easily thanks to Connie's notepad, Daryl's rough signing, and the two of them mouthing words to her. They spoke about Merle, about how he was still in prison, and then they discussed Lydia appearing. Of course, Daryl would have told her all about it.

"What's she saying now?" Rick enquired.

"She's askin' what yer involvement is in all this."

Daryl grabbed the notepad, scrawling quickly with a smirk on his face. He held it up to Connie, knowing full well that Rick could see it.

he's a filthy cop

Connie raised both eyebrows, but then Daryl held an arm in front of his chest, pressing two fingers of his other hand underneath his wrist. She nodded solemnly.

"Tellin' her yer a bridge too."

Rick tapped the side of his head, then waved his hands in the air as if saying I'm going crazy, and Connie broke into a grin, quickly writing.

Feels like that sometimes. Things get better.

"Thank you," Rick told her slowly.

They drank strong, sweet coffee, and ate homemade cheesecake that was heaving with fresh berries, and then it was time to go. Rick stood up ruefully, enjoying the conversation and the feeling of having the weight lifted off his shoulders for an afternoon.

Standing up, Connie shook his hand warmly, her eyes moving from his new tattoo up to his eyes. She gave a nod and looked over at Daryl, before smoothing the back of her hand across each cheek.

"What's she saying about me?" Rick asked.

"She's sayin' ya need ta shave," Daryl said, lightning fast, but he glared at Connie, giving the briefest shake of his head.

Connie hugged Daryl goodbye, and then Rick and he were leaving the cosy little house and making their way back down the garden path. Rick felt sleepy from the food and the comforting buzzing sound of the dozens of bees that were feeding on the many climbing plants; wisteria and jasmine and hydrangea.

"I liked her," Rick whispered, before realising that he could speak as loudly as he liked.

"Know ya did," Daryl replied nonchalantly, but he looked like he was holding in a pleased smile.

"Who did her tattoos?" Rick asked.

"Some she did herself. Some, I don't know who. Some me."

"You?"

Daryl looked indignant.

"Yeah. Why'd ya look so confused? Ain't hard if yer jus' doodlin' on each other like we do. Like, the witch's hat on her arm? I did that one day when she was bein' a real bitch ta me."

Rick held his arm out, wanting to peel off the small bandage Connie had placed over the top of his tattoo. It would be tough resisting a peek, but he knew not to remove it until he got home.

"So the ones she did on us don't mean anything, then?" he asked.

Daryl pointed to Rick's arm.

"Yours does. She sees ya as that mountain, I guess." He looked at Rick, then back down at his feet, shyly.

"What about yours?" Rick watched Daryl shrug again.

"Don't mean shit. Can we talk about somethin' else?"

Rick was about to ask if they could take a more scenic route going home, but then he and Daryl both turned around at the same time as they heard the rustle of feet on grass behind them. Connie was padding quickly across the garden path in their direction, hands signing rapidly, mouthing words to Daryl, who kept shaking his head and telling her to slow down.

"What's she saying?" Rick asked, perplexed by the flush in Connie's cheeks and the wideness of her eyes.

"I... she's signin' too damn fast fer me," Daryl replied, frustrated, holding his palms out in a slow down motion. "She's sayin' she just saw Lydia, an'... I can't follow the rest."

Connie's brow furrowed irritably, and she pulled the notepad from her back pocket, writing so quickly that the marker squeaked against the page. She was breathless as she held the page up in front of their faces.

MASK

=

They were halfway back to Atlanta and Rick was glad Daryl was riding so fast that he had to grip onto him for dear life. If not, Rick wasn't sure he wouldn't have used one of his hands to relieve the aching pressure inside his jeans. He felt hot and sticky, his palms sweaty and his brain in overdrive at Lydia's communication with Connie, and of the strange looks that had passed between he and Daryl all afternoon, especially when they were getting tattooed. Every bump in the road was torture, every time Daryl braked, Rick was pressed closer against his back.

His body was jolted as Daryl suddenly swung to the side and pulled over, hopping off the bike like his ass was on fire, and taking off his helmet before immediately lighting a cigarette. Rick shifted himself, smoothing his t-shirt down, and removed his helmet so he could ask why they had stopped.

Daryl's eyes were wide, and he pointed at Rick, cigarette between his fingers.

"So Merle had this friend, right? Real psycho, even by the standards of people he knew, right?" Daryl took a long drag, pacing around. "Ben Taylor, his name was. Doesn't sound like a name fer an evil bastard, but he was one."

"Okay..." Rick waited, sensing Daryl had just had the breakthrough they so badly needed.

"I never liked him. He even beat the shit out of me, once. Anyways, one Halloween, he an' Merle decided ta go out scarin' people. An' I don't mean trick or treatin'. I mean, proper fuckin' sick shit, like leavin' pig's heads at folks' doors, followin' girls down the street in his car ta frighten them."

"Go on," Rick gave Daryl an encouraging nod.

"Like I said, his name was Ben Taylor, but everyone called him Beta. An' that Halloween, he wanted to look as fucked up as he possibly could."

Rick knew what was coming next as Daryl's voice trembled.

"He made a mask, Rick."

Chapter Text

Free/Lounge/Couch/Revelation

It was odd not seeing Lydia hanging around, Daryl reflected. He certainly didn't miss her pale, ghoulish face and her long, stringy hair, but like a lot of dead ones, he had gotten accustomed to her appearing here and there on a regular basis. He hadn't seen her since that day he had ridden back from Savannah too recklessly in an attempt to get away from Rick Grimes and the part of Rick that had been pressing against his back the whole damn journey.

He hadn't seen Rick since that day, either. Once they had arrived back in Atlanta, Grimes had run off like a scalded cat, and Daryl didn't believe it was purely down to the breakthrough in the case – the breakthrough that Connie had inspired. He couldn't judge Rick for that – Daryl had ridden straight back down to Savannah the following day and hid out down there for the next two weeks, crashing in Connie's spare room and telling her that there was a load of shit going down that he didn't want to be around for. He tried to tell himself that it was just the case that was fucking his head up, but he had knew fine well that he had run away because he was suddenly fucking terrified. Either way, Connie knew not to ask too much. Daryl guessed that she didn't need to, anyway.

He hadn't contacted Rick and he hadn't visited Merle. And if that made him a bad brother, well, then didn't that just give him and Merle something else in common.

Connie had always been the best damn bridge out of anyone; he should have known that she would be the one that Lydia would have been able to communicate properly with. All the times that Lydia had mouthed words at him and Rick, moved her hand up and down her face, drawn in the dirt of the trailer window – she'd been trying to tell them he was wearing a mask – and neither he nor Rick had figured it out.

From what Daryl had read in the newspapers, and seen on local television, the cops had searched the home of Ben Taylor – or Beta as he and Merle had known him – and found the knife that had been used to stab Lydia to death. The poor girl's blood was still on it; fibres from her dress on the yellow t-shirt Beta had been wearing when he'd done it. Daryl wondered, all the time actually, how much Rick had had to do with it all. Had he been the one to kick Beta's front door in? Cuff the evil bastard? Hiss into his ear about his rights? It made Daryl's body twitch just to think about the clench in Rick's jaw and the cold, hidden fury within him if he had been.

And now here Daryl was, back in the grimy visiting room of the prison, sitting opposite Merle as if none of that had happened. And unlike so many of his visits before, today Daryl was facing his brother with his chin tipped upward in self-confidence, his arms folded as he looked across the table at a man who was shrunk down low in his seat, his nails bitten away and his face badly shaven. Daryl had spent days deciding whether to show up or not today, wishing he had let the mean Dixon part of him – the part that wasn't going to go – win. But that stupid part deep down in his heart, the soft, fragile part that made him help dead ones or put fledglings back underneath nests, it had taken over, and he'd come here to this grey, foreboding shithole to face his brother, who had been lying to him for months.

Merle glanced upward when Daryl sat down, but didn't meet his eyes. How many times had Daryl bowed his head, afraid to look up at his brother? Afraid of a cruel word, or worse, being mocked? Now the scenario had been reversed. Now Daryl was the one glaring at his brother with his steely Dixon eyes.

"Ain't got nothin' ta say, huh?" he snarked, his heart racing as he stood up for himself in front of Merle for the first time in his worthless existence. "Well ain't that a first."

Merle's eyes were pained-looking, something Daryl had never seen before. Was that a sign of apology in those watery, cold blue eyes? Was it guilt? He made to speak, but Daryl held a palm up to stop him, before pointing at Merle.

"Ya knew," Daryl hissed. "Ya knew this whole time that Beta killed the girl an' ya never said."

Merle scraped his fingernail across the table, his mouth downturned.

"I ain't a rat," he murmured.

Daryl said nothing. He knew Merle had his code, but he didn't understand the loyalty to a fucking psychopath like Beta. Why sit in this shithole for months, when he could give up what he knew, get out of there, get out of the state, if he had to.

"A girl got stabbed ta death an' ya knew her killer was free," Daryl said coldly. "Ya knew Beta did it an' ya know he's psycho enough ta do it again. Ain't ya got a conscience? Ain't ya got the balls ta own up?"

Daryl found the words that were tumbling from his lips came easy, because they were the kind of things Merle had said to him all of his life. He kept talking, watching with a kind of horrified glee as Merle's face went from sheepish to enraged.

"Now listen ta me, little brother," Merle jolted forward, leering right in Daryl's face, bad breath and yellow teeth mere inches away. "What do ya think would happen if I told the cops I knew, huh? I wouldn't be alive, that's what. If people thought Merle Dixon was a dirty, stinkin' rat, I'd be a dead man. This place is worse than hell, but in here I still got all four limbs."

Daryl sat back, sighing. He glanced at a fly that was crawling across the table. Merle's top lip curled upwards in a sneer.

"Sorry, am I borin' ya, Darlene?"

"Yeah," Daryl nodded. "Yeah, ya are."

Merle ran a tongue over his top lip, clearly furious but trying to hold it in so he didn't piss off the guards.

"...What did ya say? I must've misheard ya."

"Ya didn't," Daryl shrugged.

Merle's face went scarlet, his neck straining like he was having a crap.

"Now look here, ya little asshole," he spat. "I ain't above jumpin' across this table an' beatin' yer ass. I don't know what the fuck's gotten inta ya lately – or who – but ya speak ta me like that again an' what Beta did to that little whore will look mild in comparison."

Daryl blinked slowly, trying to keep his heart rate low and his face impassive. Yeah, Merle could still scare the shit out of him, that was true – but not like he used to. Now, all the admiration Daryl had once had for his big brother had turned into something more like pity. He hadn't killed Lydia, but he was still going to be in prison for a long, long time for keeping quiet about what had happened.

"Girl's dead," he stated. "Give her the dignity of not callin' her that."

"Why not?" Merle shrugged. "She was a whore."

Daryl sank his teeth into the side of his cheek. He was done, he realised.

Before Rick Grimes, Daryl would have been angry, devastated. Now, he tried not to admit to himself that he felt a certain sense of relief. Merle would cope alright in prison, but on the outside, he had only ever gotten himself or Daryl into trouble. He wouldn't be there to taunt Daryl at every opportunity; to have him picking up drugs for him or helping him steal cars. Part of him felt like a battle was going on inside him – a battle between living a quiet life where he was friends with a cop, versus robbing folks and getting shitfaced with his brother. Daryl knew the longer Merle stayed inside, the more chance there was of the quiet part of him winning.

"I gotta go, Merle," Daryl eventually said, to be met with a look of disgust.

"Think yer high an' mighty now, don't ya?" Merle said dangerously lowly. "Comin' back up here from Savannah an' all those freaks ya know down there, like yer doin' me a favour."

"I am doin' ya a favour, Merle. Lookin' after yer trailer, ain't I?"

"Oh that's very kind of ya, brother," Merle replied, before adding dangerously - "It's not like ya ta do anythin' nice fer yer family, is it. Doin' the opposite, an' worse, is more yer style, ain't it?"

"G'bye, Merle."

Daryl stood up, biting down into his bottom lip so it wouldn't quiver. He was done with Merle's toxic shit.

He wanted to see Rick Grimes, more than he wanted to stay with his brother.

=

It was getting dark by the time Daryl had summoned up the courage to ride to Rick's house. Three whiskies were enough for him to find the balls, but not enough that he wouldn't be in control of the bike.

As he rode, he tried to pretend to himself that he didn't remember the exact route there, but he recalled every red light, every stop sign, every bump in the road. He knew his loud motorcycle looked and sounded out of place as he sped down the suburban street with its identikit houses and sensible station wagons, that the kind of men who owned them were inside watching Friday night football with their kids, dressed in sweaters and chinos.

But then, Rick was one of the men inside those houses, and he wasn't like that. Maybe he had been, when he'd lived with his wife and kid. But Daryl was pretty sure that man was no more. Any more than the man he had been was no more. Something about Rick was ragged; something simmered underneath his surface and Daryl didn't dare hope that he knew what it was. He never would have thought Rick would have gotten a tattoo, but he had sat under Connie's needle as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And Daryl knew why she had inked a mountain on Rick's arm – she saw him as strong, still, powerful – and dangerous, under certain circumstances. Worth the challenge, maybe. Daryl thought of the rays of sun she had tattooed emerging from the storm cloud on his arm, and let out a short breath. Connie had seen something in him too – hope.

Before they had left Connie's home that day, he'd told Rick that she had said he needed to shave. That had been a lie – she'd told Daryl that Rick was handsome.

As he pulled into Rick's drive, he pulled off his helmet and found himself straightening his black shirt and combing the hair away from his eyes. Why was he here? To say thank you? Grimes had fucking vanished after Savannah – he might just slam the door in Daryl's face.

He didn't. Instead, Rick stood at the front door, slightly bleary-eyed. He was drunk, or getting there, Daryl realised. His hair was a mess, his face flushed. He'd missed a button on the blue shirt he was wearing and Daryl saw a faint sprinkling of dark hair on his chest. It made him clench his hands into fists and dig his fingernails into his palm. The words Jesus fucking Christ kept going over in his mind. He didn't even know why he was here.

"Daryl," Rick eventually said.

"Hey stranger," Daryl cringed at his lame joke. "Ya goin' ta invite me in, 'cause I ain't sure yer neighbours would like the look of me."

"Of course," Rick took a step back. His feet were bare and he was listening to some croaky-voice soft rock, Bob Seger or some shit, and the house seemed to be in almost total darkness.

Daryl followed Rick quietly into the lounge, where empty beer bottles and the remnants of a microwaved dinner were on the coffee table. The television was switched off. Rick leant against the wall, arms crossed, not offering Daryl a seat or a drink.

"Where ya been?" Daryl wasn't used to initiating conversation, but Rick seemed distant.

"Working," was the reply.

"I'll say," Daryl huffed a laugh, expecting a retort that never came. "Called over ta thank ya, I guess."

"For what?" Rick's voice was thick with tiredness, or drunkenness.

"Fer puttin' Beta – Ben Taylor – away. Gettin' Lydia her justice."

At Lydia's name, Rick's eyes finally met Daryl's. He looked haggard.

"Have you seen her since?" he sounded anxious.

"Naw," Daryl replied truthfully. "You?"

"No," Rick looked relieved. "I hope... I hope that means she's free."

"She is," Daryl nodded. It was always the way with the dead ones. Once they got what they had stayed in this world for, they disappeared. "Ya won't be seeing her again. At least, not the way she's been showin' herself. Maybe someday she'll appear ta ya, lookin' how she did when she was happy – if she ever was happy. An' it won't be sad, or frightenin', it'll make ya feel warm."

"I hope so," Rick croaked, but he didn't sound convinced.

"What is it, Grimes?" Daryl resisted the temptation to reach out and grab Rick's hand. "Gotta say – ya look like shit."

Rick threw his hands up, his voice raspy as he spoke.

"Lydia may be free, but your brother isn't. Feel like I failed."

Daryl crossed his arms, then shrugged and made a pfft noise as he realised he didn't really want to talk about Merle. He realised that Rick felt guilty. The aim the whole time had not just been to help Lydia, but to get Merle out of prison too.

"Fuck him, Grimes," Daryl found the words falling out of his mouth before he even had time to think about them. He just knew that they were true. "Mean it. Fuck him. He knew who done it an' Lydia was stuck here, in pain, 'cause that asshole never said."

"I thought you'd be pissed at me for not doing more to get him released."

"He don't deserve it," Daryl heard his voice get lower, huskier. Rick was still leaning against the wall, tired and starting to slur. Handsome and brave and noble. Daryl swallowed, thinking of the whiskies he'd had.

"Rick..."

"I know he doesn't deserve it," Rick interrupted. "But I wanted to do it for you, Daryl. I wanted..."

Rick's voice was ragged, his body slumped against the wall. Someone like Rick Grimes, someone good and honest, had wanted to help Daryl, for no real reason at all, and -

Daryl felt like he was his own ghost as he moved forward, his mouth quickly finding Rick's mouth; his hands delving for Rick's zipper. Rick gave an agonised moan as he messily kissed Daryl back, more gasps than actual contact, lips trailing against cheeks and chins as Daryl reached down, fingers pressing against Rick's jeans button, then pulling the zipper down. He waited for Rick to resist, say no, slap his hand away, but he didn't. He just kept kissing Daryl back – sloppily, but Daryl could tell it was from the sheer need of it all.

"Oh God, oh God," Rick breathed, his hips starting to grind against Daryl's, as Daryl's hand slid under Rick's underwear, finding what he'd wanted since the second he'd laid eyes on Rick Grimes, and feeling that Rick was now wanting it too. There'd been meaningless nothings with no-ones over the years, but now Daryl was pressing against a man that he wanted, a man that he admired and respected, and it was making his head light and his mouth babble out sweetnesses that he knew he'd be embarrassed about afterwards.

"Why'd ya come inta my life, Grimes? Huh? Makin' me not want ta be who I am no more, makin' me want ta be better, 'cause yer too good a man fer me..."

Rick's breathing was quickening, his head lolling backwards and his eyes closed shut. Daryl bit into the collar of Rick's blue shirt, then moved lower; lower until he was down on his knees, scarcely believing what was happening as he edged down Rick's jeans and underwear, then taking a sharp intake of breath as his hands touched Rick's hard cock for the first time, marvelling at its shape and smoothness. Rick's was panting, but he was letting Daryl do what he wanted, and what Daryl wanted was to slide his tongue up the length of Rick's dick, breathe in the sweaty, musky scent, then take Rick completely into his mouth, licking and sucking, his way of saying thank you and I want you and how did this happen. Daryl gave pleasured groans as Rick began to move against him, body meeting mouth, panting and sighing; Daryl was almost dizzy with his own hard-on at the spring of pre-cum against his tongue, and he didn't think that this was his best work, he was too shocked at having Grimes' prick in his mouth, but sooner than he would have liked or hoped, he felt a pulsation against his tongue and then a flood; Rick's fingers carding through his hair and a chorus of Oh fuck, sorry, fuck, Jesus Christ, I... Quickly, Daryl's hands dived under his own waistband, unbuckling and then Rick started to speak, and -

"Do you want me to...?" Rick could barely form a sentence.

Daryl felt lightheaded with arousal, just wanting to fuck into his own hand. Still on his knees, he looked up at Rick's flushed face, saw Rick's blown-wide pupils and the beads of sweat on his forehead and top lip. Yeah, Daryl had done him good.

"Nah man, I'm good," Daryl rasped.

"I thought that you... " Rick began to stammer. "I mean, I thought... maybe you felt... about me, and..."

"I do..." Daryl just wanted to come, he wanted to fucking come because of, and over, Rick Grimes. And ironically, Rick Grimes was doing his best to prevent that.

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do," Daryl snapped, beyond frustrated. "And if ya don't know what ta do with that information, well, neither do I."

"Jesus,"Rick groaned, before sitting down onto his haunches, zipper still undone, taking Daryl's face into his hands in a surprisingly tender move, but then his fingers gripped Daryl's erection, hard and inexperienced, but it was enough for Daryl, just to be touched by someone who turned him on so fucking much; it took a pathetic amount of contact before he was spilling into Grimes' hand on the lounge room floor of his shitty rental house.

=

Cleaned up, they sat on the couch together, nervous but sated. Rick's shirt was still unbuttoned pretty damn low, and Daryl found it tough to resist sneaking a look at the dark hair that peppered his chest. Sitting there in silence, that heavy atmosphere that had always been between them finally broken, Daryl felt as much at peace as he ever had in his life, and he could see that Rick's forehead was less furrowed than normal. Their thighs were the only parts of their bodies that were now touching, but that was still closer than they had ever been prior to the events of this evening.

It was more than just desire, Daryl realised. He liked Rick as a person. He'd never had much time for his fellow human beings, but Rick was, somehow, just like him in many ways. All the bad parts, at least – stubborn, prone to anger, incapable of talking about his emotions.

But maybe, just maybe, Daryl was like Rick too – the good parts.

He waited for Rick to tell him to leave, or that it had been a mistake, he was drunk and he was disgusted with himself. But Rick just gave a long sigh and then apologised.

"I'm sorry."

"Fer what."

"For what we just did." Rick wrung his hands anxiously. "For not stopping it."

Daryl felt a chill spread over his bones as he waited for Rick Grimes to tell him how dirty and disgusting he was. But Rick stared at a space somewhere between his knees and didn't say anything else.

"I wanted ta," Daryl ventured. "Felt like ya wanted me ta."

"I did – but if I put you in a situation you didn't want to be in..."

Daryl scoffed.

"Rick, I was wantin' ta be in that situation with ya since I laid eyes on ya. Unless yer feelin' like it was wrong..."

"No," Rick shook his head. "No I don't. I just... I'd never... "

Rick's face went red and Daryl felt a pang of sympathy. How well he knew how confused Rick was feeling; how well he could remember that first encounter with another man, how it had turned his world upside down.

"This is all new ta ya, ain't it?"

Rick nodded.

"I'm sorry I... so quickly... I was just overwhelmed and -"

"Rick, stop apologisin'," Daryl told him. Yeah it had been quick, but that was the case for both of them. Anyway, he couldn't think about it right now, because he already wanted it again, and he wanted more, and Rick was sitting much too close.

"I don't want to have been a disappointment, Daryl."

Something told Daryl that Rick had never been disappointing at anything in his damn life.

"That's the last fuckin' thing it was," Daryl's voice was hoarse as he recalled the taste of Rick's smooth skin. "I been denied it fer a long time, too," he admitted. "Take it all of this is why ya got divorced?"

Rick nodded.

"When I broke down and told Lori, it was almost something of a shock to myself, too," he explained. "Always felt like I wasn't right, somehow. Never knew why – or didn't want to admit it to myself, more likely."

"It ain't a picnic, bein' this way," Daryl said bitterly, remembering the pain he had felt growing up. The feelings of wanting to die just so he didn't have to deal with it. But Rick Grimes would never resort to a knife across the wrist the way he had, he knew that. "How'd yer ex take it?"

"Badly," Rick laughed coldly. "But she'll keep it a secret – she doesn't want anyone knowing that she married a..."

Rick didn't need to finish. Daryl knew the words they were called.

"Do your folks know?"

"No," Rick replied. "Fuck, no. They're good people, accepting people. But you've seen the news reports about people like us... I don't ever want to stand in front of my father and see disgust, or be told not to use the same bathroom, or..."

"Sucks," Daryl said.

"It does," Rick nodded. "I have to hide who I am every second of every day. If work found out... I can't even imagine what my partner would say. I don't think he'd ever speak to me again. And as for the people I'm arresting – my life would be made hell."

"What about yer old partner? The woman?"

"She knows, she's the only one. Without her, I could have been standing on a bridge or something." Rick shook his head, but there was relief there, Daryl could hear it in his voice. It was obvious that Rick had needed to talk about it all properly for a long, long time. Daryl had never had that luxury.

"Yeah, I hear that," he nodded.

"What about you?" Rick turned towards Daryl, knee pressing against Daryl's as he did so.

"Think I always knew," Daryl mused. "Jus' covered it up with drink an' drugs, an' -" he rotated his arm so Rick could see the faded pink scars on his wrists. "Tried that once or twice, too. An' I'm tellin' ya, Grimes. I struggled all my life with bein' a bridge, but it weren't ever even half as bad as bein' the way I am. I'd see a hundred dead ones every day, gladly, if it meant that even fer one second, I wanted ta fuck a woman."

There'd been bathrooms, cubicles, the most secluded areas of the woods. Mere minutes of contact. And none of them had meant as much to Daryl as what had just happened with Rick. There was no question of him trying anything more tonight, because this hadn't been one of those random encounters. No, he wouldn't try anything else, because he wanted to preserve it, protect it, as if it was a baby bird he was cradling in his hands. The slightest wrong movement, and the whole thing could be crushed.

Rick and he had been circling around one another for weeks, he realised. Rick through fear of what he was, Daryl because he was trying his best to stifle the desire he had been feeling. He couldn't tell Rick Things will be alright because that would have been a lie. People like them had to hide what they were.

"I just realised something," Rick's voice shook Daryl out of his introspection.

"What?"

Rick looked around the lounge.

"This house seems... still," he said, his voice sounding lighter than it had all evening. "Don't you think?"

Daryl raised an eyebrow, but found himself nodding in agreement. The heavy sense of oppression had disappeared. Nothing was being moved out of place, no strange noises were occurring, the house seemed calm and comfortable. Like the air clearing after a thunderstorm.

"Ya admitted what ya were," he told Rick. "Whatever was in this place was feeding off yer turmoil. An' what ya... what we did...."

Rick turned his face away. Daryl felt like he should leave, he didn't even know why he was still here. He knew that the events of the evening weren't ever going to happen again. In fact, he doubted he'd lay eyes on Rick Grimes again once he walked out of this house, so he stayed, to prolong what little time he had left with him.

He wasn't going to be the person Grimes experimented with, Daryl decided. For all he knew, Grimes would go back to his wife anyway. They always did. The wives would always turn a blind eye, happy to live a lie if it meant food was on the table and appearances were kept up. Anyway, he'd wanted Rick's dick, and he'd gotten it, no matter how frantic and sudden all of it had been. He was never going to be fucked by Rick, there was no point fantasising, he needed to leave Grimes alone – starting from now.

"'M going fer a piss, " Daryl announced.

=

When Daryl came back from the bathroom, Rick was sitting outside on the kitchen step, looking out at the moonlit garden. With a grunt, Daryl sat down beside him, lighting up a cigarette. Just one smoke and he would go.

Daryl liked their comfortable silences – Rick was the only person he'd ever met who, like him, didn't feel the need to always fill them – but tonight Daryl knew he had to speak. Because this could be his last opportunity.

"Told ya somethin' a while back that ya've never asked me about when ya had every right ta," he began, his voice quaking.

Rick turned to look at him, cheeks puffed out as he swallowed down a gulp of beer. Daryl knew that Rick wouldn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. Rick was too honest, too simple in the best kind of way.

"Daryl, you..." Rick's voice caught in his throat. "You don't need to." Rick's hands momentarily hovered at the side of his head, as if he was going to press them against his ears so he wouldn't be able to listen.

"It's about time I told someone," Daryl took a long drag, not really knowing until that moment that he had to finally get it off his chest. "No-one knows, 'cept for me an' Merle."

Rick's eye twitched as he spoke.

"You said that you... that your father was dead because of you."

Daryl gave a slow nod, remembering the sound of raspy breath, his father's grunts as he tried to get up, the sight of blood turning water a dark raspberry-pink. The old bastard had deserved all of it, every last second. Even at the end, he was cursing Daryl's name, telling him he should never have been born, saying that he was a useless little bastard and his mother had been a no-good cunt.

"Spent my life being kicked around by him," Daryl began, his breathing rapid. He'd never said those words out loud before, but something about Rick Grimes made him want to damn near turn himself inside out. "Beaten with anythin' he could get his hands on. Belt was his favorite, though. Big fuckin' brass buckle, he had. I still remember the cowboy an' horses in the middle of it. Ya know men like him, with yer job, 'm sure." He saw Rick nod, a his mouth a bitter line. "He hated bein' stuck with me after my mom died, I guess. Merle was almost grown by then an' so my daddy got lumbered with a kid when he wanted ta be whorin' and drinkin'. An' I was no picnic – always gettin' inta fights, or makin' a mess. Ran my mouth 'cause I was copyin' Merle... he was the only role model I had."

Daryl watched as Rick settled back against the wall, beer bottle cradled between his shapely hands. He could see why people might confess a load of shit to Grimes, he had a neutral expression and kind manner that could coax anything out of anyone.

"Older I got, the more I stayed away. An' like ya know, I was down in Savannah for a long while. Didn't hardly think of my old man. Didn't care what he was doin' or whether I ever set eyes on him again. Been years since he'd laid a hand on me, didn't have the bruises anymore an' my scars had faded some – but I never forgot the fear and how he made me feel. Most days I still feel like how he made me – like I'm nothin', no-one."

Daryl expected the response Rick gave.

"You're not n..."

"It don't matter whether I am or not," Daryl mused, sucking the cigarette right down to the filter and flicking it across the garden. "What I'm tryin' ta say is, I never stopped hatin' him, even after years an' years passed."

Daryl clenched his teeth together in a wince as he remembered his father's hard, cruel face. The cold blue eyes that he and Merle both had, the ruddy complexion from unhealthy food and too much alcohol. Thin lips that were always wet with spit when he was yelling at Daryl, or hissing in his ear about what a waste of space he was.

"'Bout a year ago, Merle told me to come back up here fer a visit, wanted ta show me some new bike he'd bought. 'Course, Merle bein' Merle, when I arrived he had blown me off fer some girl. I was stuck in the house with my daddy an' he was shit-faced, jus' like always. He loved ta hunt, but even when I was growin' up, I was better than him at it. An' he fuckin' hated that. It was one of the things that got him fuckin' angry an' made him beat the hell outta me."

The first time Daryl had killed a deer, his daddy had boasted to all of his friends that he had been the one to do it. Ya ever seen a buck this big, boys? 'Course, I got a bit lucky, but most of it was the old Dixon skill. Hopin' young Daryl here inherits my talent, but look at him, I doubt he'll ever manage.

"He'd bought – or stolen – a new crossbow. An' man, he was proud of that thing. It was gettin' dark, but he insisted that me an' him head inta the woods on a hunt so he could show it off. I knew that he was too drunk to walk straight let alone hit a target, but ya had ta go along with what he said or deal with his temper, so off we went. Walked three miles inta the woods, him missin' every squirrel he tried ta shoot. I could smell sweat an' piss off him so bad that I started ta feel sick, but he kept sayin' there was a deer right around the next tree, he could feel it, an' if I wanted ta be a pussy an' go home, then I could be his fuckin' guest."

Daryl couldn't stop the laughter that was bubbling in the bottom of his stomach. Grimes was going to think he was fucking nuts.

"We came ta the edge of a ravine. I could hear the water in the creek below, but he didn't. I always had a better ear than him, ya know? An' he didn't have the fuckin' sense to not stand too close. It had been rainin', an' the ground wasn't as firm as normal. He was tellin' me I ain't leavin' here without a fuckin' deer, swingin' the crossbow – an' then all I hear is stones an' clods of dirt fallin' an' him with them, rollin' his way down the ravine an' then he gives a howl when the back of his head hits a rock. Like a fuckin' coconut bein' split open."

Daryl clicked his tongue and smashed a palm against the back of his hand to mimic the sound, then finally allowed himself a breath. His eyes were brimming over with tears, but they were half-mirth, half-relief. They weren't guilt, or sorrow, or regret.

"Jesus Christ," Rick whispered, beer now forgotten about. "Dead on impact?"

Daryl finally released the giggle that he'd been holding in.

"Naw. Thing was, he'd been holdin' an arrow when he fell, an' that fucker just pierced right through his side. Blood was comin' out of his head an' his stomach. I ran down the ravine – to help him, I guess. But when I got to the bottom, I didn't. I fuckin' stood over him an' watched. An' he was gurglin', gruntin'... even then, he was still tellin' me that I was a useless son of a bitch an' that I should be the one lyin' there dyin'."

Daryl looked at Rick's face for some sign of judgement, but found none.

"Ya ain't goin' ta tell me what a piece of shit I am?" he ventured.

"No," Rick shook his head. "It sounds... deserved."

Daryl couldn't quite believe Rick's response, found himself pressing Rick for a stronger reaction as if daring Rick to judge him.

"I could have made my way outta the woods fer help," he said. "Gotten that arrow outta his side an' tried ta bandage him as best I could an' then try ta get him back up the ravine."

"But -"

"But I didn't. Ya want ta know what I did, Grimes? Ya want ta know what kinda man ya've been associatin' with? I put my hand over his mouth until I couldn't feel him breathin' no more. Then I took that fuckin' crossbow off him, an' jus' walked away. I went back to the house, an' when Merle came home hours later, I was fucked up on every bit of booze that my daddy owned – fucked up enough ta tell Merle everythin'."

"What did he say?" Rick asked.

"Oh he hated our old man too," Daryl replied. "Probably woulda done the same himself. But it was me that had done it – an' he's never let me forget it since."

Daryl watched as Rick made to speak several times, but would then look back down at his beer bottle, his forehead furrowed. Daryl didn't blame him. If the roles were reversed, he wouldn't have known what to say either.

"Yer thinkin' ya should bring me inta the station," Daryl offered. "It's yer duty, I suppose."

When Rick finally spoke, it was slow and deliberate. His voice was calm and his jaw was clenched in determination.

"I won't be doing that. If anything it sounds like a mercy killing. It also sounds like he didn't deserve anything of the sort."

"Jesus, Rick," Daryl couldn't keep the laugh from his voice, remembering Merle's words about Officer Grimes being cold as ice.

Rick sucked his cheeks in and cocked his head to the side as he stared at Daryl, making Daryl's stomach flutter and his heart beat a little faster. Rick's mouth was curled into a sneer, but oh, those plump red lips...

"He's the one who's been in the trailer," Rick said, matter-of-factly.

Daryl swore he could sense Rick's anger at Will Dixon, a man he had never met.

"Yuh-huh, of sorts," Daryl answered slowly.

"You seen him?" And there, there was the Rick Grimes that put people in jail, Daryl guessed.

Daryl shook his head.

"What's happenin' in the trailer... I think it's more a manifestation of what he was. All the fuckin' evil rage he had. He ain't appeared ta me, not ever. But yeah, that's him."

"So we need to get rid of him."

Daryl felt a jump somewhere behind his breastbone. We. But no matter who Rick Grimes was, or what he had done, he didn't know what he was reckoning with when it came to Will Dixon.

"I ain't draggin' ya inta this as well, Grimes." I've coped on my own until now, Daryl wanted to say.

Rick's eyes bored into Daryl's.

"I'm already in."

Daryl held his breath, all too aware that his face was going red. Rick had let him put his cock into his mouth. He had listened to Daryl tell him what he had done to his daddy. And now, he was offering to help him free himself of Will Dixon once and for all.

"Ya sure?"

Rick didn't even need to speak. He barely needed to nod. They always knew what the other was thinking, Daryl realised.

"Then we need ta go someplace else other than the trailer," Daryl said.

"Where?" Rick's eyes were sharp, alert.

Daryl breathed out.

"We need ta go ta his house."

Chapter Text

Rick felt like he had barely slept at all, waking up in the same way he used to when he was a teenager – damp with sweat and nursing an aching hard-on. He'd spent the last three days re-living what had happened with Daryl over and over in his mind, and as a result he had been in an almost constant high state of arousal. He'd gone to work on auto-pilot, barely saying a word to Shane during their shifts, and had taken more cold showers than he ever had in his life. He had been in a coma, and yet he couldn't imagine ever being in more of a limbo than he was right now. The times in between seeing Daryl were nothing more than existing; only when he was with Daryl now did he feel like he was living.

Rick reached an arm out of the bed, scrabbling around for the tissues on the nightstand, sighing loudly and arching his back as he wrapped a hand around himself, replaying the sound of Daryl's grunts in his head and the slick, wet noises Daryl's mouth had made as he had licked and sucked. Rick had never been blown like that, certainly Lori had never wanted to do it. Remembering the sight of how razor-sharp Daryl's cheekbones had looked as they had hollowed around Rick's dick had him groaning out loud, his hand moving frantically up and down underneath the duvet, closing his eyes and trying to pretend he was back downstairs, slumped against the lounge wall with Daryl between his legs, then crouching down to take Daryl's prick in his hand, and oh God, the feeling as he had held that twitching hardness, the rasping noises Daryl had made, the sight of him coming hard and quickly, and -

The alarm clock went off as Rick came, and he pressed his body back into the mattress, catching his breath and glancing over at the time. It was 10am; a well-deserved lie-in after a long shift the day before.

Michonne was coming over for dinner, and he'd told her it was his thank you to her for reminding him about an informer they had once had – a small, red-headed woman named Mary, who'd had a rough upbringing that had led her to associate with some of the worst people in the county, but who had tried to redeem herself by helping the police. Rick had brought her in, questioned her about Ben Taylor, and gotten a search warrant for his home after she'd speculated, after much prodding, that he might do a little drug dealing. Rick had been on a high after the arrest, imagining how thrilled Daryl would be that his brother was proven innocent – but then hadn't it fucking turned out that Merle Dixon had known who did it all along.

It wasn't the only reason he had invited Michonne over. After Daryl had told him If ya can trust her, tell her. Kept this shit ta myself fer most of my life 'til I met Connie. Don't let it eat away at ya like I did, Rick knew that it was time he told her the whole story. Rick hadn't asked whether Daryl had meant it about being a bridge – or about the rest of it, too.

He wanted Daryl again; he felt half-mad with it. It was all he could think about, when he had spent his whole life stopping himself from thinking about such things; so much so that it had taken this long to realise, and admit, that he liked men. When he was ten years old, his father – also a cop – had arrested two men for doing God knows what in public, and when he'd gotten home, he'd sat Rick down, told him That's not what boys do and You wouldn't go to Heaven and Settling down with a wife and children is what real men do. Rick had never been sure if that had merely been a cautionary tale, or if his father had seen something in him even back then. He had beamed with pride when Rick had announced that he and Lori, his high school sweetheart, were getting married, and Rick had been dizzy with relief when he had lost his virginity to her, glad that he had managed to get it up when she had been the last person he ever thought about when he was jerking off.

Now all he thought about was Daryl, but Daryl had left his house that night without even the merest suggestion that it might happen again. And he'd wanted it too, oh God, he had. Rick hadn't had a clue what he was doing, but still Daryl had come hard, like Rick had really turned him on, like he had been as desperate for Rick as Rick had been for him.

But of course, that hadn't been the only thing that had happened that night, and they were going to Will Dixon's house the following evening to try to get rid of his malevolent presence once and for all. Rick was nervous, but pumped; like how he had used to feel just before a big stake-out. He hadn't even known the man, but somehow he hated him anyway. Daryl may have convinced himself that he had killed his father, but Rick would never believe that the old man wouldn't have died within minutes anyway. He thought about the likes of Ed Peletier, and all the other abusive bastards he had encountered over the years, and decided that the world was better off being rid of those kinds of men anyway.

Besides, Rick couldn't, and wouldn't judge what Daryl had done. Ever. A few years back, he and Shane had arrested a disgusting piece of shit who'd been touching up little girls in the local mall. The two of them had made it their mission to be the ones to bring him in, and when Rick had been cuffing him, the bastard had turned his head, his lips wet with slobber, and asked Rick You got any daughters? Bet a little girl of yours would be cute and when Rick hadn't answered, this dirty piece of human crap had whispered Never mind, if you have a son, he would taste just as good. Shane had been happy to turn a blind eye as Rick had turned the man around and beaten him bloody. He had knocked that filthy pedo's teeth out, split his lip, blackened his eye, probably broken his nose too, if not his jaw as well. It had gotten to the point when even Shane had said That's enough, man, and Rick knew that if he had been left alone, he would have killed him.

So no, he didn't judge Daryl, because he wasn't in a position to. And he knew Daryl thought that he was good, and honest, and yes, for the most part he guessed he was. But Rick was all too aware of the darkness that also lay within him.

Just like he had shade, so Daryl had light. Rick had seen a flower-seller at the side of the road the previous morning, and, on a whim, had stopped to buy a bunch of sunflowers. He'd read where Lydia was buried, and found himself driving to the graveyard to place the flowers there. When he arrived, there was a small posy of wildflowers already there, tied with a ratty piece of string. There hadn't been a card. There hadn't needed to be, for Rick to know who had been there. So Daryl deserved his help, and Rick wanted to do whatever it took for them to get rid of Will Dixon – but part of him wondered whether if they did, that would be it for he and Daryl. Will gone, Lydia gone, Merle with the prison sentence he deserved. There would be no more need for he and Daryl to meet – and that scared Rick more than seeing a load of dead people did.

=

Michonne nodded as Rick offered her more wine. He tried to keep his eyes focused on her glass, and not the view from the kitchen, where Mike and Andre were sitting on the garden bench. Seeing Andre cut Rick deep. The little boy was swinging his legs, his cheeks puffed out as he tried to whistle, but Mike just stared inside. Rick wondered if he couldn't hear Mike because he was too inexperienced as a bridge, or simply because he didn't want to. Either way, their presence sent prickles up his spine, and made his voice sound scratchy and slightly too high-pitched as he pretended to Michonne that everything was normal.

"Is my cooking getting better?" he asked as jovially as he could.

"Dinner was... acceptable," she teased, setting her knife and fork down, her spaghetti carbonara mostly eaten. "At this rate, you might not actually starve."

Rick tried to smile, having barely eaten anything himself due to the nervousness he felt. He'd been able to tell Michonne anything over the years – she was the one he had told when he'd started to realise he had feelings for men – but telling her what he'd been doing lately seemed to be so much harder to reveal.

"So," she sat back and folded her arms. "Hurry up and tell me whatever it is that's making your face bright red."

"What?" Rick twisted his expression into one of mock confusion.

"Jesus Rick, you're making me nervous with the way you're behaving. You're forgetting I know you about as well as I know myself, if not more. You can tell me if something's bugging you. You know that."

Rick did know. He cleared his throat, pushed his plate away, then took such a large gulp of red wine that he almost choked.

"There's a lot," he said, swallowing down Merlot.

"Go." Michonne topped up both their glasses.

Rick was glad his back was to the kitchen window so he didn't have to see Andre and Mike as he spoke.

"Something happened to me when I was in the coma," he began. "And I'm still not quite sure what, but if I tell you, you've got to promise me that you won't send me straight to a shrink."

Michonne leant down, picked up her purse from the floor and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Rick had never seen her smoke before, and she gave a small shake of her head.

"I know, I know," she said apologetically. "Just something I picked up... after... "

"It's okay," Rick shrugged.

"I feel like I might need one with whatever you're about to tell me," Michonne said.

"I might need one too," Rick joked, unable to not think of Daryl in that moment. "I... I guess I've been seeing things since I came out of the coma."

"Things?"

"People."

"What do you mean?"

Rick paused.

"...People who have died."

Michonne tried to keep her expression neutral, but failed. She looked concerned.

"Rick, stress can affect people in certain ways, and with the coma, and your divorce, and the reason you had to get divorced..."

"No, Michonne," Rick interrupted, suddenly frustrated by her rational explanation. "I've been round and round it in my own head, trying to tell myself the same thing. You know why I was so keen to help that girl Lydia? Because I kept fucking seeing her, that's why. Me and..." he gripped the edge of the table. "Me and Daryl Dixon."

He waited for Michonne to respond, watched her eyes widen in realisation.

"Merle Dixon's brother? That's why you wanted to help with that case?"

Rick rubbed a hand against his stomach and leant forward, feeling slightly nauseous.

"Daryl calls it being a bridge," he explained. "Seeing people who've passed on – like we're a link between the living and the dead. He's a good man, Michonne. He tries to help them, has been helping me learn how to deal with all of this."

There was a scraping noise as Michonne pushed her chair back, hands up to pause Rick.

"Woh, woh, woh," she half-laughed. "Rick, you have to accept how unbelievable all of this sounds, right? I mean, you realise that this might be hard for me to swallow?"

"I know. But I'm just being honest. If you think it sounds unbelievable, how do you think I feel?"

Michonne shook her head briefly, then reached out and wrapped her hand around Rick's as it rested on the table.

"I believe you, because it's you," she said softly. "You know, I figured the last time we met that there was something going on with you, you were just acting so damn weird – so if anything, I'm relieved that you've finally told me what-"

"-Me and Daryl..." Rick interrupted, not knowing how to end that sentence.

Michonne's mouth fell open.

"He's... like me," was all Rick could muster. Michonne stood up, pacing around the kitchen before sitting back down again and leaning as far forward towards Rick as she possibly could.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"No. Christ, no," Rick shook his head. "Nothing like that. He came over, and I was a little drunk, and we did stuff. Things." Rick's face was burning but it felt good to be able to tell someone – and when he managed to meet Michonne's eyes, she looked pleased.

"Rick!" she exclaimed. "Somehow you've told me you can see ghosts and then completely eclipsed it with that story. Fuck. I mean... fuck."

She stood up, walking around to the other side of the table and enveloping Rick in a tight hug.

"You needed that, right?" she whispered, pressing a kiss against his cheek. "You needed it. Bizarre choice of person, but it's a start."

Rick took a gulp of wine and shook his head.

"It's not so bizarre, Michonne. He's not what you'd expect – well, parts of him are exactly what you'd expect – but he's kind, a little soft under it all, I think. Had years of abuse from his Dad, and put up with shit from Merle all his life. Add the fact that he's tormented by the dead every day, and he's turned out better than he should have."

"Can't be easy, being the way he is with that surname," Michonne commented, sitting back down and then biting her lip. "If you're going to pursue this, you know to be safe about it all, right?"

Rick picked at a ragnail and nodded.

"I know. Thing is, I don't think there's anything to pursue," he replied quietly, unable to keep the regret from his voice or the ache in his chest. He hadn't realised until he verbalised it how scared he was that his time knowing Daryl Dixon would be as good as over the following night.

"I wish I could help," Michonne said.

"I think he'd run a mile," Rick sighed and poured the last of the wine, signalling that he was done talking about it. He saw Michonne rub her temple, her eyes reddening. Rick knew what she wanted to ask – and he hoped that she wouldn't.

"I need you to tell me," she blurted out, and Rick winced. "I won't ask for anything, or get upset with you – I just need to know if you've seen them."

Rick felt his own eyes well up. He wasn't sure what would break her heart more – telling her he had never seen Andre and Mike, or telling her the truth.

"You don't need to answer," her voice trembled. "Your face says it all." She suddenly gave a pained cry, covering her face with her hands. "Do they look okay, or are they the way they were after what happened?"

"They look the same," Rick reassured her, trying desperately not to look outside, because then she would know that they were out there.

Michonne rubbed her face and looked at him with large, pleading eyes. It killed Rick to see the hurt in her, that hurt that was embedded in her blood and bones, and always would be.

"Where have you seen them? Do you see them all the time? Are they here now?"

"No," Rick lied. "I see them, but not all the time. This is all new to me, I can't just... "

"I want to talk to Andre. I want to talk to my little boy." Her voice was frantic now, her hands reaching across the table and grabbing his wrists. "Please, Rick. Please."

Rick felt his eyes sting as he shook his head.

"I can't, Michonne. I've never... I don't know how."

"Then you shouldn't have fucking told me this!" she cried, and Rick knew she was justified in her anger. She glared at him, that fire that had kept them both going through countless investigations, and he wanted to crumble to pieces at the guilt at failing her.

Michonne picked up her purse, looking around the room for her jacket.

"Michonne... "

She held a hand up.

"I need time, okay?" she stated. "It's... it's not always all about you, Rick, you know?"

"I know, I'm sorry."

Rick felt the self-loathing bubble up in the pit of his gut. Had he just used her for an outlet for his problems? Had he done the same to Daryl?

Michonne didn't embrace him as she left like she usually did.

It was another thing that Rick would have to make right.

=

Rick had spent his afternoon peering out of the window, waiting for the sound of Daryl's motorcycle. Even when he was a rookie, he hadn't felt this nervous. Nervous to see Daryl again and nervous about what may or may not unfold when they got to Will Dixon's house. Not for the first time, he contemplated changing the dark plaid shirt he was wearing, but as he finally heard the tell-tale rumble of a Triumph, he realised that Daryl Dixon probably wasn't the kind of man who noticed such a thing anyway.

Rick emerged from the house and hurried down the path, accepting the spare helmet from Daryl, before pausing.

"Two seconds," he requested, before running back inside and getting his personal gun from a box at the back of the closet.

Daryl saw him tuck it into the waistband of his jeans, but, helmet on, didn't say anything. Rick had to admit to himself that he'd let his shirt ride up a little higher than necessary as he'd slid it against his skin, and wondered what the hell was happening to him. Daryl then handed him a small rucksack.

"Put that on yer back," Daryl yelled, the first thing he had said. "Hold on tight. It ain't a short ride."

Daryl wasn't kidding. Rick felt his muscles begin to cramp after two hours of holding onto Daryl's waist, first on the freeway and then down smaller roads, then dirt tracks as they ventured up into the woods, dodging rocks and tree roots, rickety bridges and deceptively deep creeks. Rick tried to enjoy the scenery, but he also wondered if they had passed the ravine where Will Dixon had died, along with imagining Daryl darting between the trees as a younger man.

The house, when they got there, was little more than a shack. The dilapidated porch was like something Rick had seen in a horror movie once, and the roof was barely holding up under the weight of a carpet of moss. The grass outside was up to Rick's waist, burying old cars and machinery, and dozens of shattered moonshine jars.

Inside, the house reeked of damp and despair. Mouldy and depressing, Rick could sense the violence and oppression that had been the norm here. The atmosphere in his own house had been nothing compared to this; it made his flesh crawl. It felt foreboding. Evil, almost.

"I've come here before," Daryl said, kicking at a bundle of faded newspapers on the floor. "He ain't never showed himself. Guess if I'm honest, always felt relieved that he ain't." He looked at Rick, his face earnest. "Think I'm ready fer it now, though. Now that you're here too."

Rick's mouth twitched but he stopped himself from smiling. It didn't seem like the right time; if all this worked out, he could indulge himself with thinking about it later. If all this worked out.

"So we wait? Is that it?" he asked. "Until something happens?"

Daryl sniffed and gave Rick a dirty look.

"Ya mean ya ain't brought yer ouija board? Or a table we can do a seance around?"

"Fuck off," Rick retorted as Daryl snorted.

Daryl rubbed the side of his arm, his biceps taut and tanned. He licked his bottom lip and looked around the room. All was still. Rick saw him glance up at a tacky old painting of a cowboy, and wondered if that had hung there for all of his life. Eventually, Daryl turned around.

"Shit was always worst in the trailer when both of us were in there," he began, looking Rick up and down so studiously that Rick felt sweat prickle in the small of his back. Rick thought of the first time he had been in there; the broken ashtray and Daryl's heavy, hot body on top of his. It made him throb with want.

"You think he doesn't like me?" he whispered.

"He don't like anyone," Daryl replied quickly. "But he would hate that you... an' me..."

Rick held his breath as Daryl took a step towards him.

"We need ta make him angry," he told Rick, his voice low.

Rick barely had time to croak out a hopeful How? before Daryl reached out to grip the side of his head, pushing him back against the wall. Rick felt the dampness against his back, the musty smell of ancient wallpaper and rotting wood as Daryl's mouth pressed against the soft flesh of his neck, then travelled down to where his teeth grazed Rick's collarbone. Rick tipped his head back, his entire body one long shiver as Daryl's tongue probed his skin.

"Please kiss me – please," Rick heard himself saying – no, pleading.

Daryl complied, and Rick felt Daryl's teeth nip at his bottom lip before Daryl dived in for a proper kiss, Rick responding with fervour while simultaneously wondering Is Daryl only doing this to summon his daddy. But the way Daryl was thrusting his body against Rick's allayed his fears, and he began to push back, enjoying the feeling of how strong Daryl was; how strong they both were – in every way each other's equal. Rick heard Daryl gasp through the sound of their smacking lips as he scratched his nails down Daryl's thick arm, his hand eventually resting against the small of Daryl's back. Daryl's t-shirt was slightly damp and Rick ached to lift it up, touch the warm skin that lay at the top of Daryl's waistband. Everything about this was new and intoxicating – he'd never felt another's man's stubble scrape against his lips and chin, never had calloused hands pull at the curls at the nape of his neck, never felt himself go hard against a body as powerful and muscled as his own.

"It ain't workin'," Daryl mumbled through their kisses, his thighs brushing against Rick's.

"I don't care," Rick breathed, and then, as if he was in a dream, he felt himself reaching down, pressing his palm against the growing bulge in Daryl's jeans. He was rewarded with a guttural groan and Daryl bucking against him as Rick slowly rubbed back and forth.

"Fuck, Grimes," Daryl panted, as Rick dared to grapple with the button and zipper of Daryl's jeans, sliding his hand underneath the denim and finding no underwear, just Daryl's thick cock.

"Tell me to stop if you want," Rick whispered, even though he didn't mean it. He gasped as Daryl broke their kiss, sucking Rick's neck with a wet, hot mouth as he jerked against Rick's hand. Rick wanted nothing more than to unzip himself, tell Daryl to touch his swollen dick before he couldn't stop from doing it himself.

"Don't fuckin' dare stop," Daryl moaned, his voice catching as Rick squeezed the head of his cock. Daryl reached up, pressing his hand against the window to the left of Rick's head so he could get some leverage as he let Rick begin to slowly jerk him off.

Rick faltered as he felt Daryl's hand shove itself down the front of his jeans, but increased his pace, hoping that if he concentrated on making Daryl come, it would stop him from shooting his own load too damn fast again.

"FUCK!," Daryl exclaimed, and Rick barely had time to mumble an I know before Daryl was snatching his hand out of Rick's jeans, slapping away Rick's fingers and pointing towards the window.

Rick's mouth fell open and his erection disappeared as he and Daryl watched the window frost over from the inside. It was boiling hot outside but ice crystals formed all over the glass until it was completely covered. Self-conscious now, he and Daryl both zipped up and adjusted themselves, Rick half-terrified, half-enraged at the interruption.

"Look!" Rick pointed as they saw a patch of the ice melting, before the outline of a large hand appeared.

Daryl puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

"It's him. Can feel him."

"So... we wait?" Rick asked.

Daryl grabbed the back of Rick's head, kissing him hard and hungrily.

"He don't like this," he growled, flicking his tongue against Rick's. Rick staggered back, ready to finish what they had started, his dick over-ruling his head that was telling him that they should be being vigilant, but as he wrapped an arm around Daryl's waist, suddenly he felt a wrench as Daryl was ripped out of his grasp by an invisible force.

Rick watched in horror as Daryl was flung to the other side of the room, landing heavily on his back, before scrambling back up, wiping broken glass from his jeans. Seemingly not even winded, Daryl got onto his feet and held his arms out, ready for the challenge, fingers twitching in a 'come on' gesture.

"Be caref..." Rick began, but Daryl's hollers were louder.

"C'mon, ya old bastard. Fuckin' bring it. Ya hate it, don't ya? What I did. An' what I am. How's about ya stop bein' such a fuckin' pussy, breakin' shit in the trailer, an' fuckin' do it properly."

Rick ducked as the window behind him suddenly shattered, sending shards of glass over his head and into the room. The cowboy painting on the wall split in two before crashing to the floor, and the whole room began to vibrate, the ceiling cracking and the floorboards beneath Rick's feet moving up and down as if he was on some sort of fairground ride. He pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself, watching as the front door swung open and shut, making a booming noise.

"Come ON," Daryl repeated, standing stock still in the middle of the room until he was lifted off his feet again, his body suspended in mid-air before being thrown against the wall, where he fell to the ground in a heap. Rick swore he could hear bones cracking.

"Daryl!" Rick cried out, rushing to his aid. Rick crouched down, sweeping the hair from off Daryl's face and seeing a long cut down one side of his forehead and over his eye.

"Leave me," Daryl implored. "Get outta here. Protect yerself. He's come ta end this an' I don't want ya involved." He was struggling to speak, clearly winded and in pain.

"I'm staying," Rick argued, making to put an arm around Daryl's shoulder in order to try to help him up, but he never got the chance as he felt himself being pulled away; thick, invisible fingers digging into his waist, and then his body being pushed onto the floor at the other side of the room. Rick landed with a heavy thud, broken glass digging into the flesh of his palms as he put his hands down to break the impact.

"Daryl!" he yelled, scrabbling backwards as Daryl slowly and painfully rose to his feet, swiping at his bloodied face, spitting onto the floor. Rick realised that Daryl was prepared to die if it meant getting rid of his father once and for all. But Rick wasn't going to let him.

"Told ya," Daryl began, gasping for a breath. "Ya need ta leave."

Rick looked up as the lampshade hanging from the ceiling began to swing rapidly from side to side, sending years' worth of dust onto their heads, creating a murky fog in the middle of the room. Rick coughed and wiped his eyes, opening them to see a large figure appearing in the middle of the room – first the feet that were clad in brown work boots, then shapeless blue jeans, a torso that was bursting out of a dirty, stained blue and red checked shirt, and finally the weathered, cruel face of Will Dixon. His long arms hung by his side, his fingers twitching in a way that Rick recognised as being a habit of Daryl's. His mouth was a thin line, twisted in fury, and his eyes were narrow like his son's, but red rimmed and cold, cold blue.

Rick finally got up off his feet, seeing Daryl was frozen, genuine fear on his face as he faced his father. Will was slightly taller, more imposing, but Daryl was younger and fitter. Rick could see how Will Dixon would have been absolutely terrifying to someone growing up with him.

Rick tried to take a step between Daryl and his father, but Will waved his arm, and Rick was thrown sideways against the wall. He howled in agony, grabbing his left knee as pain exploded all over his body. He tried to move, but was pinned against the wall as if someone was holding him by the wrists. The whole house began to shake, a whooshing noise starting as if a tornado was whipping around the middle of the room.

"This is OVER," Daryl jabbed a finger at his father, and Rick gave a guttural cry as Will Dixon raised a fist, sending it straight into Daryl's jaw. Rick heard the crunch of teeth and bone as Daryl punched back, landing a blow right to Will's stomach. Will momentarily bent over as he recovered from the punch, but then grabbed Daryl by the throat, pushing him backwards as Daryl's arms flailed and he made a strangled noise in his attempts to keep breathing. Rick was hoarse from shouting, his muscles aching with the exertion of trying to move. He couldn't watch Daryl die in front of him.

Daryl managed to reach up, sticking a thumb in his father's right eye. Will released his grip as he staggered backwards in agony, and then Daryl was rushing towards him, grabbing his father around the waist so he could tackle him to the ground. Rick watched arms and legs kicking and punching and grabbing as the two Dixons fought, rolling around on the floor in a battle that Rick didn't think would ever end. Will was panting heavily, his bulk and age against him. Rick flexed his arms, finding that it was easier to move now. As if he was wading through treacle, he managed to move away from the wall and towards the fight.

He grabbed Will's shoulders, attempting to haul the great, hulking man off Daryl, but it was like he didn't even know Rick was there. This was a battle between father and son only, a snarling, spitting mess on broken glass and splintered wood. Daryl was on his back, his face getting redder and redder as Will pressed the back of his arm against his throat. Daryl grasped at his father's wrist, to no avail. Rick realised that if he didn't act soon, Will was going to kill him.

Rick gave an anguished moan as he stood helplessly, watching Will tug his shirt up and slide a thumb into one of his belt loops, searching. Rick's eyes widened as he thought of how Daryl had described all the beatings Will had ever given him, and he remembered Carol Peletier's words about her husband – Even though he's gone, sometimes it feels like he's still there, you know? Like some part of him has been left in my house.

Rick had always been at his best when he'd acted on his hunches. And he knew right now that this was more than a hunch. He'd lost his instincts only once - the day he got shot.

He wouldn't lose them again.

He needed to find Will Dixon's belt.

"Daryl, hold on, okay? Hold on," Rick implored, relieved that the house was small and the two bedrooms were a mere few footsteps away. He walked into a room with bunk beds first, their mattresses bare and stained, and then tried the opposite bedroom – almost immediately covering his mouth with his hand as a rancid smell hit his nostrils. There were dead insects and something rotting in a corner that had once been a living creature. The weeds growing through the walls and floor smelt pungent, and the room was dim and musty, but Rick didn't care as he dived towards a chest of drawers, pulling out each one and throwing out handfuls of clothes onto the floor, until at the very back of the bottom drawer, he found an old brown belt, its leather cracked and its brass belt buckle tarnished and so smoothed through wear that it was hard to make out the Marlboro logo in the middle. Rick grabbed it and ran back into the lounge, where Daryl was gurgling and choking.

Please don't die, don't dare fucking die on me Rick said over and over in his mind as he raced outside, throwing the belt down onto the ground and pulling his gun from his waistband.

He aimed and fired at the centre of the buckle.

BANG

"Come on!" Rick hissed.

BANG

"Come on, you FUCKER!"

The brass was resilient, Rick drenched in sweat with fear and frustration.

BANG

Rick's hands trembled as he saw the last bullet go right through the middle of the buckle. He immediately covered his ears as an almighty roaring sound exploded from the house and a howling wind whipped around his head like a twister. Dirt and dust stung his eyes as he staggered back into the house, watching in awed horror as with a metallic, screaming noise, Will Dixon disappeared into thin air, what was left of the windows smashing as he did so.

Behind, Daryl was lying on the floor. He had stopped kicking his legs and his breathing was barely audible; little more than a pained gurgle.

"DARYL!" Rick exclaimed, rushing to his side and immediately falling to his knees.

Daryl gasped for breath, clutching at his neck, blood pouring from his mouth.

"Don't move," Rick begged, glad that he was trained not to panic in situations like these – although this felt entirely different from any crime scene or victim he had attended to.

"'M fine," Daryl croaked, trying to sit up. He bent double as he coughed, a horrible, hacking noise. He spat phlegm and blood onto the floor, before clutching his stomach and vomiting. Rick rubbed his back throughout – and Daryl let him.

"Did you black out?" Rick asked, and Daryl shook his head.

"Jus'... let me catch my breath," he gasped.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Rick ordered.

"I'll be fine."

"You could have artery damage in your neck or damage to your windpipe. We're fucking going," Rick insisted, well aware of how choked up he sounded.

Daryl sat back, his hair soaking wet with sweat. Rick smoothed a hand around his neck, checking for cuts or swelling.

"Are you dizzy? Lightheaded?"

"No," Daryl coughed again. "But I'm down two back teeth, I think." He rubbed his forehead wearily, spitting again, and then looking at Rick through reddened eyes.

"The fuck did you do? One second he was on top of me an' the next, gone."

"I'll show you when you're able to stand," Rick replied.

Rick sat cross-legged beside Daryl, who lay back down onto the floor again, arm behind his head. Less upper arm strength, and he would have had a dead body on his hands, Rick realised, giving a shudder as he thought about how he would have explained being in an abandoned house with a dead member of the Dixon family.

Eventually, Daryl felt strong enough to stand, letting Rick hold him up and lead him outside to where the belt buckle lay, destroyed and unrecognisable.

"How the fuck did ya know ta do that?" Daryl asked, his voice shaking and his eyes teary.

"'Cause I'm a damn good cop," Rick replied.

Daryl considered this, chewing his bottom lip.

"I guess ya are," he nodded.

"We need to get you some medical treatment, no arguments," Rick ordered.

Daryl looked at his motorcycle.

"I ain't in no position ta ride."

Rick took a deep breath.

"If you trust me with it..."

"What? You can ride a bike?" It was the first time Daryl had smiled.

"I did a spell in the motorcycle unit – and stop fucking laughing at me," Rick replied, deciding not to tell Daryl how much he'd hated it. He also wouldn't tell him that that had been half his life ago. "Let's just sit in the grass for fifteen, make sure you're alright for the journey."

"Told ya, 'm fine," Daryl said, though he looked like hell. "Ya think it's the first time my daddy tried ta choke me out?"

"The last time," Rick whispered. "It's over, isn't it. I can feel it."

Daryl nodded solemnly.

"Yeah." He pointed to the backpack that he had made Rick carry. "C'mere with that."

Rick handed Daryl the bag, and watched him pull out a can of gasoline.

"Daryl..."

Rick raised his eyebrows, not needing to ask what Daryl was about to do.

Daryl shoved his hand in his pocket and took out a lighter. He turned towards Rick, a sad smile on his face.

"Thank ya fer all ya've done fer me, but ya don't have ta be here fer the end of all this," he said gently. "This is my shit an' someone in yer job don't need ta be involved. I mean, I know it probably ain't legal, but..."

"So I didn't see it happen," Rick shrugged, his heart beating rapidly. He smiled as Daryl looked at him and shook his head. "I want to be here. I want to get to the end with you."

"Yer a crazy bastard, ain't ya?" Daryl chuckled.

Rick shrugged. Yes, he was realising that he really, really was.

"Give me the can." Rick pointed.

Daryl handed it over.

"It's one thing ta pretend ya don't know – an' another ta help," he drawled.

Rick looked down at the dry grass, bleached white from the stifling summer they had had. This would catch quickly. Daryl's eyes widened in horror as Rick dared to touch his motorcycle, wheeling it far enough away as to be safe. Then he doused the small porch and surrounding grass with the gasoline, taking care not to get any on his boots.

Admiring his rather odd handiwork, he felt Daryl at his side, smelling of sweat and blood, and breathing heavily.

"You light this, and we go straight to the hospital," Rick ordered.

He dared to reach out a hand, waiting for Daryl to shake on it. Instead Daryl, ever so briefly, threaded Rick's fingers through his. Rick gasped and watched Daryl nod as he pulled his lighter from his pocket.

"Stand back."

Chapter Text

A farewell/A request for ice cream/Society/And then.../End of summer/September/October

Daryl ran his tongue along the back of his bottom teeth, poking at the still tender part of his gums where he was missing two molars. Two missing teeth was pretty good for a Dixon – any teeth at all was pretty good for a Dixon, in fact - and he knew he'd gotten off lightly with the injuries the house and his daddy had inflicted on him. On the rare occasions he had looked at himself in a mirror since, you could barely tell. Here and there, his face was still slightly swollen, or covered in puffy, reddened scars, but hell, he'd always been ugly. So Merle had always told him, anyway.

The house had caught on fire quickly. He and Rick hadn't stayed to watch the whole of the old place burn down, no matter how much Daryl had wanted to see it reduced to nothing more than ash and black, skeletal frames. A month later, and he still couldn't quite believe that Rick had been the one to throw gasoline over his childhood home.

He also couldn't believe that Rick hadn't dragged his ass to a hospital when Daryl had gone back on their deal and refused to go. He'd always dealt with his injuries on his own anyhow, and he hadn't much wanted to make up a pack of lies to some doctor about why he was so beaten up. A few pills from Merle's stolen stash and some whiskey had knocked him off his ass for over a day and a half, and when he'd woken up, the worst aches of his body had eased and his mouth had stopped tasting metallic.

Daryl still wasn't sure whether Rick had really been there for the few moments when he'd drifted back into consciousness, or if that had just been part of his feverish dreams.

He was sleeping well now. As well as he ever had. For the first time in his life, his daddy was gone. The home where he'd been beaten and abused was gone. And Merle was, for the most part, gone too. Daryl missed him, of course he did. But he didn't miss being told what to do, how useless he was, how he was a disgusting freak. Daryl didn't question everything he did now, didn't wonder to himself whether Merle would approve of it. He just was.

And yeah, he was as much at peace as he'd ever been. Well-rested and the trailer quiet at last – even the dead ones seemed to be temporarily leaving him be. But there was an emptiness; an ache. All he had ever wanted in his life was to be left alone, and he still did – but he wanted the kind of alone where he still heard the tread of old brown cowboy boots on the step outside. The kind of alone where he smelt someone's sweat and felt their breath against his neck and was happy for it.

Daryl groaned, stretching his body out and hooking a finger underneath the blind that covered the small window beside the bed. Sunshine poured in, and he winced, scrunching his eyes shut. His stomach rumbled, and he smoothed a hand across his protruding ribs. He thought of his favorite breakfast place down in Savannah, thought about how Rick would love the French toast there that always came soaked in syrup – but then remembered that Rick would never be there – because why would he be?

Daryl groaned again, from more than hunger this time; a moan that spoke of longing for something other than food. He was warm in bed, comfortable. His belly was rumbling but there were tins of soup in the cupboard so that wasn't a problem. It was the other wants he had that weren't as easy to satisfy.

Rick Grimes was haunting him more than any dead one ever had. Once the worst of his injuries had healed, he'd told Rick I can look after my damn self, quit actin' like a nursemaid, told Rick to go so he could get some sleep. And Rick had obeyed, squeezed Daryl's shoulder, stood there for a moment acting like he had wanted to say something, but then had left without a word, leaving Daryl feeling an odd sense of loneliness that he wasn't used to.

That was more than three weeks ago and he had thought of Rick Grimes every day since. Every day? More like every moment. Merle and his daddy were barely background figures in his thoughts now; blurred at the back of his mind, Rick Grimes taking up too much room – his blue eyes that were less cold when they were looking at him, the grey hairs in his stubble, the slight sunburn on his long nose.

Daryl kicked the covers off, letting a leg dangle out of the side of the bed. What it was was – he wanted Grimes. Hard and fast and angry. And not just that – he wanted him soft and slow, too.

It had never been like that for him before. He'd always wanted the things he'd wanted, but he'd never felt before. And Rick's mouth had been warm and yearning, his body needy and thrusting – his skin and lips and dick had made Daryl think, however briefly, that Rick had felt too.

"FUCK," Daryl clenched his fist and slammed it down onto the bed. This would pass, he told himself. Anything he had ever gone through always did, good or bad. At his age, he should have known better than to get himself into the kind of shit he just had. A life full of disappointments and he'd gone and dared to find something that had been teetering on the edge of, well, something.

He finally hauled himself out of bed, running a hand through his messy hair so it stopped falling into his eyes. He yawned and blinked, sighing as he saw the small piles of his meagre belongings on the tiny carpeted floor. It wouldn't take long to pack them away, but he was reluctant. He was waiting, he realised. For a knock at the door. Always waiting.

"What do ya want?" he said out loud, kindness in his voice as he smelt his mom's cigarettes. It had always comforted him when she was around. "Thought ya'd be gone once he was. Thought ya were only hangin' around 'til ya finally saw him disappear. Know ya were probably there, mom. I did it fer all of us, ya know. Me, you an' Merle."

The smell of smoke got thicker, so thick he had to wave a hand in front of his face to disperse it. It curled around his head, almost as if it was caressing him, cradling his face with its tendrils. Then, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He smelt nothing. Daryl raised an eyebrow, padding over to the window where through the trees he saw the back of a woman as she walked away, the sun highlighting the red tones of her wavy hair. Daryl's breath caught in his throat as he remembered his mom's auburn hair, the way it had lightened up in the summer, the way her hand had been cool and firm as it had taken his when she led him through the woods. He opened his mouth, wanting to call out to her, but stopped himself. He hadn't had her for long when he'd been a kid, and even when she had been around, sometimes it hadn't been good. She'd liked her wine and the odd pharmaceutical when things with his daddy had been at their worst, but she'd been the only mom he had ever known.

He wouldn't smell her cigarettes again, he knew. And he wasn't going to be selfish and feel sad about that, because it meant she was at peace now.

He stared out of the window for a long time, thinking.

It was Saturday morning, and Rick Grimes might be with his kid.

Monday. Daryl would go see him Monday.

=

There was a car already outside Rick's house as Daryl pulled up, wondering if the self-restraint he'd had in waiting until after six o'clock to visit was about to go to waste. He sat on his bike, looking down at the cracks in the dry pavement as he tried to convince himself to pull off his helmet, walk up to the door, and ring the bell. He smelt suburban barbeques, heard children laughing, saw an ice cream truck go past. What the hell was he doing here, really?

His fingers twitched at his sides. He could go back to the trailer, maybe stop on the way there to get beers and potato chips, drink himself into a stupor while he boxed up the rest of his shit. Grimes was done with him, he guessed. Merle and Lydia and his daddy – that was all finished with, so now Grimes could shake him off, get rid, pass this whole thing off as a weird time in his life that was better best forgotten. Daryl grit his teeth together, craving a smoke; the sooner he could get home, the quicker he could have one, and -

The front door opened, Rick standing there, loose pale blue jeans and a Springsteen t-shirt on, something with the stars and stripes on it; All-American, just like Grimes. Daryl felt fight or flight kick in, trying his best not to speed off down the quiet street, but those damn blue eyes of Rick's held his, and then Rick was waving him in, and Daryl felt powerless as he got off the motorcycle, removed his helmet, and walked up the path.

Standing inside the hall, Rick smiling warmly at him, he smelt garlic, something Italian. His eye moved over to the staircase, where a white leather jacket was hanging up. Daryl frowned, backing slowly towards the front door, but Rick noticed, shaking his head.

"It's Michonne's. My old partner's? She's over for dinner."

"I'm goin' ta go," Daryl snapped more than he meant to. "Ya got company."

Rick's arm stretched out quickly, fingers pressing against Daryl's forearm.

"Please," he said quickly. "I'd like you to stay for dinner."

Daryl chewed the inside of his bottom lip, thinking about how much his stomach was rumbling and how he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. He was so lost in his deliberations that he barely registered Rick's low voice saying She's a friend and then he was following Rick into the lounge, then the kitchen where the table had been laid for two people, and there was a woman leaning against the counter, a large glass of red wine in her hand, swirling it as she looked Daryl up and down, all bright pink lipstick and tired eyes.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, not even pretending not to be shocked.

Daryl felt the sadness that enveloped her, felt it seeping into his own bones, the feeling as strong as he'd ever gotten it from anybody, even as she ribbed Rick for how he was flapping about, stirring a pot of sauce with one hand and trying to stop the pasta bubbling over with the other. Daryl enjoyed the easy relationship they clearly had, but more than that, he saw how respectful Rick was towards her, how he gave her her food first, and pulled her chair out for her.

As they ate, Daryl was aware of her barely-hidden smirk as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gulped down wine like it was water, and suppressed a loud burp. Her eyes kept flicking from him to Rick, a coy smile on her face. She and Rick started talking about the government, or some shit he didn't care about like the President meeting the Russian leader, that one with the strange red birthmark on his head – stuff that had no consequence to his life.

As they finished eating, the telephone rang and Rick stood up quickly.

"That'll be Carl," he said. "Excuse me, guys."

"Take your time," Michonne replied, and then she and Daryl were alone. He wasn't sure how to make conversation with her; certainly he wouldn't be able to converse about current affairs the way she and Rick had just been doing. And anyway, he could sense by the way her face had fallen as soon as Rick had left the room that there was only one thing on her mind. Daryl could sense that she would never broach the subject herself, guessing that she was too good a person to request something from him, a person she had only just met.

He wanted to do it, because she was Rick's friend.

"Ya can ask me, ya know," he told her quietly.

"Ask you what?" Michonne's voice shook, as much as Daryl guessed she would ever let it.

"Ya know," Daryl replied. "I'll do it fer ya. I'll let ya know what ya want. They're right out there, in the garden."

Michonne swallowed, looking over her shoulder anxiously.

"I... I never wanted to put that onto Rick. He's been through enough."

"So don't. Use me," Daryl shrugged. "Rick don't need ta be involved..."

"Involved in what?"

Daryl shut his eyes as he heard Rick's voice behind them, relieved as Michonne answered him.

"Daryl's going to speak to them." He heard the tremor in her voice and his chest ached in sympathy for this woman he had only just met. "To Mike and... Andre."

Rick was beside Michonne in an instant, gripping her hand, and Daryl felt a twinge of jealousy that inside he knew wasn't justified. Rick was dropped down onto his haunches at Michonne's side, his arms almost resting on her thighs as he spoke softly to her. Daryl felt like a spare part, like he should look away from this most private of moments, but he couldn't – he was transfixed at Rick's softness, his calm demeanour as he kept asking Michonne Are you sure? and she was nodding, whispering What am I going to do? Spend my whole life wondering? And then she was glancing almost shyly at Daryl before turning back to Rick and saying I know he'll tell me the truth, Rick. If he's as good a man as you say he is, he will.

Rick stood up, smoothing his hand across his hair.

"Okay," he nodded. "Okay."

"Oh, got yer permission, have we Officer?" Daryl snarked, and saw Michonne's eyebrow twitch upwards in slight amusement.

"I think I'd better shut up before Michonne punches me," Rick said, deadpan, and it was only moments before the mood turned sombre again as Michonne walked over to the kitchen door, opening it and staring out at the garden. She looked out at the darkening sky, then back to Daryl.

"They're really out there?"

Daryl gave a nod, sitting down on the back porch as Rick brushed past him to light a candle to keep the bugs away. In the flickering candlelight, Michonne sat down beside him, while Rick hung back in the doorway of the kitchen, and Daryl was grateful that Rick was perceptive enough to give he and Michonne space. It always exhausted him, doing this, but this time he wanted to.

The man – Mike – was still on the garden bench, fingertips pressed together and head dipped. He looked up, and Daryl nodded. Say what you want to.

Mike stood up, took the little boy's hand and walked slowly towards the porch, so clear that it blew Daryl's mind how Michonne couldn't see it too. Behind his head, Rick muttered a short Jesus, and Daryl could sense Rick's pain at seeing the little boy so close, too.

Mike was right under their noses now, looking down at Michonne with a destroyed expression on his face. Guilt, Daryl assumed. He looked strained as he tried to speak; Daryl knew how much it took it out of the dead ones, attempting to communicate was like wading through molasses for them, it was the reason that not all of them could. But sometimes they needed to send a message so damn much that they managed, and now Mike was straining to find his voice. Daryl nodded in encouragement, and then Mike's voice was in his ears, thin and muffled, like a bad telephone line.

"He says he's sorry," Daryl turned to Michonne. "Really fuckin' sorry. Obvious, right? But he says he wasn't fucked up, not like you'd seen him before. He was high, 'cause he'd smoked some weed. But he hadn't been drinkin' an' he hadn't snorted anythin'. He says he'd been distracted was all, didn't see the red light, swears he didn't run it on purpose."

"I know he wouldn't have," Michonne choked. "I do know that. He was a good father. He just made a mistake that destroyed his life, my life... Andre's."

Daryl looked away as Michonne covered her face with her hand, trying to hold in the sobs. He turned toward Mike, who stood stock still, his cheeks damp with tears. Daryl tried not to react as Mike ushered the little boy towards him. He was waving a purple plastic dinosaur and his black hair was ruffled like he'd just woken up. He was wearing blue shorts and a white t-shirt with some Sesame Street character on it. Daryl took a sharp breath. Fuck, he hated the kid ones. Always fucked him up a little, and this little boy was the cutest. He could see why Rick had found it tough to talk about.

The boy got so far, then hid behind his daddy's legs, peeking out shyly at Daryl. Daryl wasn't used to kids, knew that even to the dead ones he maybe looked like someone to fear, so he forced a smile and raised his hand in a small wave. To the side, he saw Michonne put her hands over her mouth.

"It's Andre, isn't it?" she whispered, and Daryl nodded as the kid waved back and then slowly shuffled forward.

"Ice cream?" the little boy said and Daryl felt his bottom lip shake. "Wan' ice cream."

"I don't have no ice cream," Daryl choked, and Michonne was by his side in an instant, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

"Ask him... " she began, her hand sweaty. "Ask him what flavor he likes."

Daryl swallowed.

"Kid, what's yer favorite? Vanilla, right? Strawberry? Nah, let me guess – chocolate."

Andre stamped his foot impatiently, sticking his tongue out. Daryl knew the answer anyway, because Rick had told him.

"Cookie dough!" Andre exclaimed at the same time as Daryl did, and when he turned to look at

Michonne, tears were streaming down her face but she was half-crying, half-laughing.

"He's asking for cookie dough? Really?"

"He is."

The grip on Daryl's hand got tighter, and if he was a better man, one who had given and accepted touch throughout his life, he would have hugged her.

"He's okay," she sobbed. "My little boy must be okay if he's asking for ice cream. It's all he ever did, even when it was snowing or if he was sick or if it was 5.30 in the morning."

"He's okay," Daryl nodded. "He looks pretty damn alright ta me."

Andre turned on his heel and ran back to Mike, who spoke once more.

"He's askin' me if yer doin' alright," Daryl said. "Said it's why he's hung around. Said he wanted ta see ya doin' better before he left the place he's in an' moved onta someplace else. Said he's glad ya have Rick lookin' out fer ya."

"Oh really?" Michonne rolled her eyes now. "Because it was a different story when he was alive. He was always jealous, always wondering about Rick and I."

Daryl dipped his head as he relayed Mike's next words to Michonne.

"He says he loves ya, an' always will," Daryl felt a tightness in his chest. "He says he won't ever forgive himself fer what happened, but that Andre was sleepin' through the whole thing. He says he didn't feel nothin'. He says he'll look after him an' that they're free ta go now that he's been able ta tell ya all this."

"I love him too, always," Michonne gasped. "And he can go. It's fine. He can take Andre to some place better than here."

Daryl reached out, took her hand again, then pulled her towards him, tentatively. He watched Mike lift Andre onto his shoulders, and walk towards the bottom of the garden. They slowly faded, leaving behind only the slightest trace that they had ever been there, like dust motes in sunlight.

Beside him, Michonne exhaled, long and slow. The atmosphere changed, lightened. It almost felt happy.

"They're gone, right?" she asked. "I mean, I know they are. I can feel it."

"They are."

She released Daryl's hand and took a step back to look at him. Her eyes were still teary, but her expression was strong, confident, in a way that reminded him of Connie.

"You know, when Rick told me about what he – and you – could see, I didn't believe it, not really. I suppose I didn't want to. But I do now. Thank you, Daryl.

"Didn't do nothin'." Daryl scuffed his feet against the ground, bashful.

"You did more than I could ever say," Michonne whispered, her voice hoarse.

Daryl felt himself pulled into a long embrace, her earrings rattling as she held him close. She smelt of expensive perfume, and the silk blouse she was wearing felt smooth against his skin. She whispered another thank you into his ear before he grew uncomfortable, and had to pull away.

"Stop thankin' me," he said. "Ya'd have been alright even without this."

"You don't know that."

Daryl crossed his arms, sucking in his cheeks as he looked her up and down.

"Oh I do. 'Cause ya remind me of a friend I got, down in Savannah. She's strong as fuck. You are too."

=

All credit to Rick, he had let Daryl have his time with Michonne; gone upstairs shortly afterwards to have a quick shower, leaving he and Michonne alone in the kitchen once more, her with a glass of water and him with more of the red wine that was probably more expensive than all of the clothes he was wearing put together.

Michonne sat on the kitchen chair with her knees up against her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

"I can't pretend not to have been shocked when Rick told me the surname of the person he'd been hanging with," she said.

Daryl huffed a laugh.

"Don't blame ya. Dixons and cops don't go."

"I'm learning that it depends what Dixon and what cop."

"...Stop."

Michonne took a sip of water and tapped a finger against the table.

"The thing is," she began. "Despite his job and how he acts, Rick's fragile. I think you've helped."

"Helped him?" Daryl scoffed, disbelieving. "Confused him, more like."

He watched as Michonne shook her head, baffled at how this professional woman who lived in a different world to him was speaking to him as an equal, telling him personal things about Rick, and – complimenting him.

"I wouldn't be so quick to say that," she pondered. "Rick's never known what he's wanted, I don't think. He's done plenty – but all of that was just what was expected of him. And now? With you? Maybe he's finally figured it out."

"Well then he's made a fuckin' mistake," Daryl simultaneously wanted and didn't want to hear what Michonne had just said. "...No-one chooses ta make their life hard."

"He would," Michonne said firmly. "He's always made his life hard, by doing what was the right, responsible thing – even if inside he was fighting against it all, I realise that now. I'm not stupid, Daryl, and I can't pretend to know what it's like for you – in this part of the country, with this government – but what I'm trying to say is that Rick won't find that life any more difficult than the one he had before."

Daryl took a swig of wine, rolling it around his mouth, trying to articulate what he was thinking. Michonne waited patiently for his reply.

"Ain't about what he feels, though," he told her, his voice a mixture of resentment and sadness. "It's about what other people think an' say an' do. It's about society. An' I ain't ever been part of society – but he is."

"I get what you're saying," Michonne nodded ruefully.

"Yeah. I reckon ya do."

=

Michonne was gone. The room was suddenly dimmer, the dishes done and the radio switched off. Rick closed the cutlery drawer with a click, his hand hovering over the bottle of merlot. He seemed to change his mind, instead turning around to face Daryl.

"Thank you."

Daryl cleared his throat.

"Was nothin'."

"It was everything," Rick hovered in the middle of the kitchen. "I could never have given Michonne what you did. I wasn't brave enough. She's my best friend and I saw that pain lifting off her a little for the first time since it happened – and you did that."

Daryl suddenly felt weak with tiredness, his head heavy from the wine and the contact with Mike and the little boy.

"Rick, stop it with the talk like that... I can't, an' - "

Rick was suddenly in front of him, rubbing a hand across his thick stubble.

"Will you stay here tonight," he suddenly blurted out.

Daryl felt his heart stop and the blood begin to thud in his temples. His mouth went dry and he could barely get words out.

"Fer what?"

Rick's face was expressionless as he replied.

"You know what."

Daryl stood up, rubbing a hand across his belly, anxious. Rick's eyes met his, and he managed to hold that stare instead of looking away shyly.

"What is it?" Rick asked.

"I don't know," Daryl replied, and he didn't. Didn't know whether to say yes, or tell Rick he was out of his fucking mind, or simply walk out and never come back.

Instead, he followed Rick upstairs into the bedroom.

Daryl looked at the bed; its smooth navy sheets, the carved oak headboard, the gun on the nightstand – sat beside a glass of water and a small lamp like it was normal. The curtains were closed and the comforter was turned down, as if in invitation, but Daryl had to will himself to stand still because if he didn't, he was pretty sure he would run out the door and be halfway to Savannah within the hour. He didn't trust this, the fact that he was standing in Rick's bedroom. A man he liked and respected and was attracted to. A man, that for some fucking insane reason, seemed to want him.

"Daryl?" Rick's voice beside him was tentative. "You okay?"

"Yup," Daryl rasped. What else was he supposed to say? I ain't never done it with a man in a bed before? The little trysts he'd had, not for a long time, had been rushed, cramped, upright. He wasn't even sure he would know what to do. But hell, at least he knew more than Rick would.

"It ain't..." Daryl blushed. "It ain't like what ya do with a woman. It ain't..."

"I know, I know," Rick said hurriedly, and Daryl saw the flush on his neck travel to his face. "I think I have what we... what I..."

Daryl said nothing, watching as Rick fumbled in a drawer, holding up what he found.

"Shane – my partner – he gave me these when me and Lori split up. Said I'd find a girl crazy enough to sleep with me eventually but that I'd need help to get her wet and..."

"I don't need ta hear any more," Daryl croaked, unable to bear the embarrassment any longer. What he'd come to realise was that he and Rick weren't talkers; they were the same that way. Since they had met, they seemed to say more to one another when they didn't even open their mouths – and as if to prove what Daryl was thinking, Rick took a step towards him, whispering We don't need to say anything else, and then he was tucking a lock of hair behind Daryl's ear, leaning in for a kiss that started off soft and fearful, before deepening to the point that Daryl needed to take a step back to steady his footing, his hands moving from Rick's shoulders to the small of his back, never resting for too long in one place, as if he was frightened to go any further than this, even though Rick's heavy breathing told him that this was going to go as far as it could, and now Rick's hand was slipping under Daryl's t-shirt, edging it upwards. Daryl broke away, meeting Rick's heavy-lidded eyes, his pupils large, watching as Daryl threw the shirt onto the floor. He shivered as Rick ran a hand down the side of his ribs, fingertips pressing against the bones that were protruding a little too much, a thumb edging beneath Daryl's waistband to rest against his hipbone, before rubbing circles against his skin.

"Your father's house..." Rick began, and Daryl raised an eyebrow, a brief shake of his head.

"Don't want ta talk about it," he warned.

"No, no," Rick shook his head. "I just need to know that what we were doing there – that it wasn't just because you were trying to make him appear."

Daryl couldn't stop himself from snorting a laugh.

"Would I be standin' in yer bedroom right now if that had been the only reason?"

Rick gave a short relieved sigh, taking Daryl's lips in his again, until Daryl backed towards the bed and sat down. Rick stood in front of him, pulling off his shirt and unbuckling his belt. Daryl drank in the sight as Rick looked down at him. Daryl touched the dark hair below Rick's navel, and Rick gave a sharp gasp. Daryl leant forward, pressing his forehead against Rick's flat stomach, his lips grazing the warm skin, and his nose inhaling Rick's scent. He felt the knots in his shoulders disappear as he breathed; something about having Rick so close felt warm and comforting and that wasn't a sensation he was familiar with.

"Lie back," Rick pleaded, and Daryl complied, wriggling up the bed to lie with his head on the soft pillows, trying to stop his entire body from trembling as Rick joined him, draping himself over Daryl's body to kiss him. Daryl tugged at Rick's jeans, both of them kicking their pants off, their legs twining as they gasped and panted into one another's mouths, both hard, both breathing raggedly. Rick's thigh was between Daryl's legs, thick and hairy and firm enough that Daryl wanted to rut against it. He didn't want to come, not yet, this had to last as long as he could bear, least of all so he didn't embarrass himself, so he was almost glad when Rick pulled away, stretching out Daryl's long arm against the pillow and pressing his lips against the scars he found on the inside of Daryl's wrist.

"No more of that," Rick whispered as he kissed the delicate skin. "That's done with, okay?"

Daryl nodded as Rick's mouth met his once more, practically lying on top of him now, their cocks meeting, their mouths groaning at the contact. Skin and sweat and the heat of their naked bodies. Taut biceps, shiny trails of saliva against chests and necks and stomachs.

"Rick," Daryl heard himself say, going out of his mind with lust, his whole body feeling like it was just the swollen purple hardness between his legs. "I need..."

Rick swore under his breath, sitting up, his eyes wide and terrified as he stared at Daryl.

"How do we..."

Daryl grabbed Rick's hand, guiding it between his legs, lower, showing him what most had never bothered to do. He felt Rick's hands shake, awkwardness almost overtaking lust, but Daryl knew Grimes would manage. He cursed out loud, arched up off the bed as Rick did what he'd told him to, Rick's thumb and index finger resting against the sensitive skin beside his inner thigh as he worked, the noise of slickness the only sound.

"Think 'm good," Daryl rasped, pointing to the items on the nightstand before turning over onto all fours. His knuckles whitened as he grabbed onto the pillow, sorry that he wasn't able to turn his head around enough to watch Rick reach across, the only sound the noise of foil tearing and Rick's heavy breathing. Daryl felt his body quake as he strained to see Rick's jutting, turgid cock as Rick's hands shook.

"I... " Rick gulped. "What if I hurt you?"

Daryl arched his back by way of invitation. Yeah, sometimes it had hurt – and hurt bad. But not this time, he knew it. He felt Rick's hesitation, the nervousness; all the things that made Grimes a good man – not wanting to just take, take, take the way everyone else in Daryl's life always had.

"Ya won't," Daryl breathed, backing against Rick's body and running his tongue along his bottom lip, waiting waiting waiting.

And then -

"OH. G... God, oh God," Rick's voice was strangled, stuck in his throat, serving only to make Daryl's cock grow even harder as Grimes eased his way inside him, and Daryl knew that Rick's short breaths were caused by his shock at the tightness; a lifetime of just women – and maybe even only one woman – and now this.

Daryl dipped his head, his fingers twisting as they grabbed the sheets, fingernails digging in, teeth clenching, breath held, knees and thighs aching as he waited for that uncomfortable sting to turn into the pleasurable burn that he'd craved for far too fucking long. It was bumpy, irregular, unsatisfying; Rick swearing under his breath as he slid back out of Daryl, not used to it, unable to find a rhythm.

"Easy, Grimes," Daryl rolled over, half-sitting up as he reached for the back of Rick's neck, pulling Rick closer for a heated kiss. Rick's skin was searingly hot, his chest glistening with sweat, and his eyes teary. "Ya ain't doin' anythin' that I haven't wanted from ya since I first fuckin' laid eyes on ya. Do what ya want with me... I'm fuckin' yours."

"I'm yours too, Daryl," Rick replied breathlessly, and Daryl didn't know if the chill that travelled down his spine was from fear or something else, but he didn't have time to think about it as Rick pressed him back down towards the bed, lips warm, kissing him languidly until Daryl made to turn over again, but Rick held him still, a hand drifting between Daryl's thighs as he pulled his legs apart.

"Not like that," Rick whispered, and Daryl held his breath, looking away shyly, this wasn't the way he was used to; eye contact, being seen. Feelings. "I'm not... " Rick paused, swiping hair from Daryl's eyes with his thumb. "I'm not like other people you've maybe been with..."

"Nah, that ya ain't," Daryl gave a quick nod, nervousness swirling around in his belly. This fucking meant something, what they were about to do, and it had him blinking away the moisture that was prickling at the back of his eyes. He opened his mouth to say more, as did Rick, but neither of them spoke, just kissed again, once, and then Rick was sliding back in, nerves vanishing in each thrust, each jerk of his hips, each time he made Daryl moan.

Daryl felt like he might pass out at any second, his head light and his heart racing, blood boiling and sweat lashing off him as Rick fucked him into the mattress, finding a rhythm now at last, teasing Daryl with soft movements and holding still, then pushing into him, thick and fast and hard.

Daryl's hands were gripping the headboard but he moved his right hand away, brushing fingers against the tip of his cock and feeling the wetness, resisting the urge to shove the digits into Grimes' mouth.

"Not long..." he managed to pant, could feel from Rick's ragged movements that he was close too. Daryl cried out as he felt Rick give a push that had him nearly shooting up off the bed, his whole body tingling and shuddering, his thighs aching, his head thumping with the blood rushing through it, his voice hoarse and his cock twitching and straining and leaking.

"Fuckin' come," he groaned, as he felt Rick pulsating inside him, wanting to beg Rick, all his inhibitions gone. "Ya can stay inside me."

Rick juddered, his fingers gripping onto Daryl's biceps so hard that Daryl knew he'd be bruised in the morning. Swear words poured from Rick's mouth Fuck oh Jesus oh shit fuck fuck fuck as he unloaded inside Daryl, his body one long shudder, Daryl feeling it, his hands slipping against Rick's back as he pulled him in closer, his own cock dripping and throbbing, begging for Rick's touch - his hand, his mouth, anything at all would do.

"Rick," Daryl croaked, and Rick answered by way of wrapping his palm around Daryl's prick, gripping the base tight and circling the head with his thumb, spreading the wetness up and down, and then he was jerking, sliding, fucking Daryl with his hand, the climax going through Daryl's entire body – thighs, lower back, ass, balls, then his cock, and Rick was red-faced and panting and sweaty, and then Daryl jolted, shooting come over Rick's hand and wrist and his own belly, spurts of whiteness, thick, prolonged, needed.

It was a way to get rid of his ghosts.

It was an exorcism.

=

A week later, in the trailer. It was late morning, or rather, early afternoon by that stage. Neither of them wanted to get up. Outside, that meltingly hot summer, the hottest summer Daryl could ever remember, was beginning to fade. It was almost a new season now, a new time.

Beginnings. But mostly, endings.

Daryl was on his side, fingers threaded through Rick's on the pillow as they talked quietly, post-sex tiredness making their voices thick and husky and their eyes heavily-lidded.

"This life ain't no fairytale," he murmured, almost to himself as much as it was to Rick. A reminder that this strange, quiet twilight world they'd been living in for the past week wasn't real.

"I know that." The dampness of Rick's body had made his hair explode into a mess of curls.

"Do ya?" Daryl leant up onto his elbow. "Been hidin' this all my life, Rick. What I am an' what I want. Seems like this is somethin' ya've only started ta come ta terms with, an' I can't be the one ya use ta get it outta yer system."

Rick cocked his head to the side, looking genuinely offended at that suggestion.

"That's not what this is, Daryl. And I think you know that."

Daryl did. He could tell in Rick's voice and his touch that it was more. But they couldn't pretend that things could go any further than this.

"Go an' get yerself another wife, Grimes. That's yer path in life, not this."

"I don't want that."

Daryl sat up, patting away Rick's hand as it slid against his chest.

"Ya have a choice right now, Rick. I'm givin' ya an easy way out," Daryl said. "Find some girl who'll make a home fer ya. Jus' 'cause the first one ya found didn't work out, doesn't mean someone else won't. 'Cause let me tell ya, ya don't want this. The fear of bein' found out an' getting yer shit kicked in – or worse. Hearin' people talk on TV about how people like ya are spreadin' a plague. How yer ruinin' society. Ya don't want it, Grimes. An' ya sure as fuck don't deserve it."

Rick lay back against the pillow, clearly no intention of going anywhere.

"Don't you get it?" he asked, desperately. "There's no going back, Daryl. I'm not going back."

=

=

Another week. Rick had said there was no going back. So Daryl would go forward instead.

"You're leaving, Daryl, aren't you," Daryl felt Rick's hand grip his bicep, his palm warm as the rest of their bodies cooled.

Rick had appeared, early – like, 5 fucking AM early after his shift. Daryl had been bedheaded and confused as he'd opened the door, his hastily pulled on jeans quickly discarded as Rick had pushed him back inside, not saying much in words because his mouth had told Daryl everything as it had kissed him, Rick taking off that nasty sheriff's shirt and scratchy pants, his gun set down onto the table, pushing Daryl against the bed, lying on top of him, then underneath as Daryl had sat astride him, thighs aching as he stretched himself to let Rick inside, moving up and down as Rick pumped, wondering if the old trailer itself was moving; not self-conscious or awkward, the first, second, twentieth times were been and gone, they both knew they wanted it, all pretence gone, slick and hot and easy.

"Yup," Daryl chewed his lip.

"Back down to Savannah, am I right?" Rick sounded weary.

"Yup."

"When?"

Daryl licked his lips and looked anywhere but at Rick.

"In a week or so. Connie's lettin' me crash there until I get somethin', but she's outta town right now."

Rick rolled over onto his back, giving a long sigh as he looked up at the ceiling of the trailer. Daryl rummaged in the mess of sheets at the bottom of the bed for a bottle of booze or a pack of cigarettes, he didn't care which. His hand brushed against glass, and he picked up the bottle, unscrewing it and feeling Rick's eyes on him as he sipped the bourbon.

"It's a strange time for you to go," Rick commented, his voice flat.

Daryl held the alcohol in his mouth so that it started to burn his tongue and the inside of his cheeks. He needed the sting of it, something to stop him from talking. What kind of fucking statement was It's a strange time for you to go anyway?

"Was never permanent, me bein' here," Daryl replied.

"I know, but..."

"But what."

"Nothing," Rick sighed again.

"Were ya expectin' more from this?" Daryl asked. Rick didn't answer, just snatched the bottle from his hands to take a drink. Daryl couldn't decide whether Rick expecting more, or nothing else at all was worse.

Grimes or not, Daryl couldn't stay. He hated it here. He hated this cramped, run down trailer. Hated the traces of his life that still existed here. And what would he be staying for, anyway? Some cop? One with a kid. One who'd probably start fucking chicks again once he got all of this out of his system. Rick was the most solid, straightforward person he'd ever met and he was bound to go back to a life that was exactly the same. Best to discourage him right now of any notions of this continuing once he walked back out of the trailer.

"Life will seem pretty fucking boring from now on, that's all I'm saying," Rick offered, and Daryl turned onto his side to watch Rick drink, licking his lips as he saw Rick's reddened mouth wrap itself around the rim of the bottle. He let Rick drain the remnants, before taking the bottle back and throwing it down onto the floor.

"Glad I amuse ya," he growled, "Glad I kept ya occupied in yer summer of decidin' ya wanted ta fuck men," and Rick turned to look at him, eyes heavy and chest glistening with sweat as he leaned towards Daryl to plant a whiskey-laced kiss on his mouth.

Rick grabbed Daryl's arm, tracing his tattoo with a fingertip. He lingered at the rays of sun that came out of the cloud, looking up at Daryl.

"Why did Connie add those to that tattoo?" he asked. "You've never said."

"The sun is you, Rick," Daryl replied. "Until you, I was just... " he shrugged.

After that, Rick fucked him, maybe more than he'd fucked him before. Deep, hard, slow... slow like a held breath. Daryl came with Rick on top of him, holding him still and kissing him through it, until Daryl felt Rick's body quiver, and Daryl wrapped his calves around Rick's back, pulling him in until he felt Rick's release inside of him, that last gasp and shudder, the weight of Rick's body increasing as he stopped holding himself up, the beads of sweat and sticky come cooling on their bodies.

"Ya can go back ta yer real life now," Daryl whispered as Rick ran a hand down the side of his face, nuzzling into his neck.

"No," Rick breathed back.

Daryl let Rick sprawl across his body for another half hour before raising his leg up with a grunt and gently pushing his knee against Rick's side.

"C'mon," he rasped. "Need coffee an' a smoke."

Rick rolled over onto his back, brazenly looking Daryl's naked form up and down. Daryl picked his jeans and t-shirt from off the floor, scratching at the sprinkling of hair at the top of his dick before pulling them on, Rick still staring at his crotch as he did so.

"Fuckin' quit that," Daryl grumbled, slamming two mugs down onto the counter and spooning coffee into the pot irritably. As he made the coffee, he knew Rick was looking over at him with sleepy eyes, and he couldn't tell whether he hated it as much as his abrupt tone suggested.

Was easier, to be an asshole towards Rick. Daryl snuck a look at him, how Rick was lying back in the bed, leg dangling from underneath the blankets, all casual and relaxed like he owned the fucking place. Daryl gripped the handle of his mug until his knuckles whitened as he tried to push away the feeling that Grimes made this trailer feel like home.

"I ain't waitin' on ya hand an' foot," he snarked, pointing at Rick's coffee. Daryl averted his eyes from Rick's naked frame as he loped out of bed and towards the counter. "Put yer uniform back on an' I might let ya have some breakfast."

Rick bent over, collected his clothes from the edge of the bed, and pulled on his pants. Daryl felt him press his shirtless body against his back, daring to graze the side of his neck with those fleshy lips. Daryl ignored him, reaching across for the pack of cheap, sugary cereal that was all he could afford.

"Y'know, there's bacon and eggs back at mine. Or we could go get some waffles."

Daryl closed his eyes briefly and breathed in as Rick nuzzled against his shoulder.

"Yeah, an' then what? Cinema fer a date? Candlelit supper in the park? Go find a girl who wants ta do that shit with ya."

Daryl found himself feeling guilty when Rick gave up, sitting down at the table to pull on his boots. By way of apology, when Daryl set their bowls of cereal down, he pressed a kiss against his thumb, and then held the digit against Rick's lips, slowly and quietly. The look in Rick's eyes at that smallest of gestures physically pained Daryl, and he couldn't do anything but pull away and sit down opposite.

"Yer not the reason I'm leavin' here, okay? That enough fer ya? Ta know that?"

Rick stabbed the spoon into his cereal, setting it back down against the bowl with a clatter.

"No. No, it's not."

Daryl sat back, rubbing his forehead. He wasn't given to speeches, or revealing his feelings, and his head was already thumping.

"It's jus' better, okay? Me bein' away from here. I can live my own life down in Savannah, 'specially with Merle put away fer a while. He's always bin the person I followed an' looked up ta. Never had any other role models but Merle. But if I stayed in Atlanta an' he was released.... I'd go the same way as him, know I would. An' I don't want ta. Was a time I wouldn'a cared – I do now."

"I get it, Daryl," Rick nodded, and Daryl knew that Rick got it. Because Rick Grimes was a good man. The best.

Daryl ate his cereal in silence, waiting until Rick did the same before standing up and opening the trailer door. He sat down onto the step, enjoying the crisp air, and lit up a smoke. He'd not miss much about the trailer, but he'd miss this view of trees and clouds; the moments before the day properly kicked in.

He heard the scuff of Rick's boots and the creak of a knee as Rick joined him, and it pained Daryl how comfortable he felt with Rick's thigh tight against his on the small step.

Rick didn't say anything, just leaned forward and rested his elbow on Daryl's knee. Acceptance.

"Can ya do somethin' fer me, Grimes?" Daryl ventured.

"Anything, Dixon."

"Keep an eye on the trailer? Make sure it's dry an' no-one's been usin' it. Maybe one day when Merle gets out he'll need it again. I mean, I can check it out when I'm up ta visit him, but..."

"Of course I will, Daryl," Rick nodded, and Daryl flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground, extinguishing it with the heel of his boot.

"...Thanks."

"Have you noticed?" Rick asked, pointing towards the sky.

Daryl looked up at the sky that was dotted with small fluffy clouds. It was coloured peach, violet, cupcake-frosting pink.

"What?"

"The birds," Rick enthused, before his voice turned softer. "Before... your daddy... there weren't any here."

"Yeah, an' now they're noisy as fuck."

"It's nice, though, isn't it?"

"...Yeah. Yes it is."

It was another half hour before Rick had actually left. Daryl had pulled him back inside, and it had been frantic and hard. They were both angry, frustrated, pretending like they didn't care - and that meant a bite mark on Rick's shoulder, scratches on Daryl's back.

They had acted like it was cold and emotionless, but it hadn't been.

=

=

=

"I have had enough of your moping," Connie had signed, not long after Daryl had moved into her house, on the promise that he would find his own place soon. The way she was acting made him wonder if Michonne was treating Rick the same way. Man, he hated that he hoped so – but he hoped so.

Getting out of Connie's hair was the reason Daryl was back up at the trailer for the first time in what, six weeks maybe, since he had left. He was just back from seeing Merle, who had lost any humility he may have found in the aftermath of Beta being convicted, and was back to complaining and criticising, and acting the bigshot, big-mouthed asshole that he had always been to Daryl.

Yeah, Daryl was better away from here. Did it matter that when he was lying in bed at Connie's, restless, window open, listening to the wind blow through the leaves of the trees and the relentless crickets, that he thought about stolen moments in Merle's trailer? A hand sliding down along his sweat-beaded belly, a stray dark brown curl clinging to the blanket, a mark on the trailer floor where the heel of an old cowboy boot had been kicked off in a hurry?

He stared at the bed, devoid of sheets now, and somehow he wasn't even shocked when he heard the arthritic squeak of the trailer door opening, and that scuff of boot on the top step. He kept busying himself with opening the small window to let the air in, acting nonchalant when he felt nothing of the sort. Rick cleared his throat as he stood behind him, but Daryl had to hang on for as long as he could before turning around.

"Came up here every morning before my shift," Rick's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Always hoped that one day I'd drive around that corner and see your motorcycle sitting there."

"Visitin' Merle today, been a minute," Daryl explained, his voice coming out huskily. Finally, he turned around. Rick was bearded - a proper beard – and his wet hair was combed back and beginning to dry into its usual nest of curls. He was dressed in casual clothes; faded black jeans that were too big around his ass and the brown t-shirt that Daryl secretly loved to see him in.

Rick had his hands on his hips and began to speak determinedly.

"You think that you were just an experiment to me," he said. "That I'd just fuck you and then be done. You weren't, Daryl. You aren't."

"Rick, yer a smart man," Daryl sighed. "Ya know that that's not goin' ta ever happen. Jus' got ta move on. Was a good summer, ya know? Don't want ya thinkin' it didn't mean somethin' ta me too, but -"

"But what?" Rick sighed, tipping his head back.

"Ya know the score."

"You still at Connie's?" Rick asked.

"Yup."

"I liked it down there," Rick tried to smile. "Was private. A little freer than here."

"I guess.... " Daryl eyed him warily. Half-hoping, half-dreading. That day he and Rick had gone to Connie's had been one of the best days he'd had in... ever. "Feels like yer edgin' around some sorta point. Make it."

"Thing is," Rick said. "I only see Carl every other weekend. And those weekends without him are pretty damn lonely. You told me to go on with my life. The thing is, Daryl – I don't have a life, or at least, I didn't until I met you."

"So?" was all Daryl could manage to say. How could a man like Rick Grimes, a man so mature, responsible, with a kid, say he didn't have a life?

"So Savannah's a four hour drive away," Rick bent his head so he could look up at Daryl's eyes, like some damn puppy-dog. "Pretty do-able."

"An' what are ya expectin' if ya make that drive?" Daryl asked huskily, wishing he had the balls to tell Rick to leave. Maybe Merle and his daddy had always been right about him being a pussy.

"Nothing, Daryl," Rick exclaimed. "Nothing. Just to still know you."

"Huh." Daryl searched around in his brain for an excuse, a problem. "Won't ya be workin' the weekends ya don't have Carl?"

Rick gave a strange choked laugh.

"No. No I won't." He shook his head.

"Ya changed yer shifts?" Daryl was officially confused now.

Rick smiled, and the lines around his eyes, those little crinkles that Daryl secretly liked, seemed to disappear with the relief that was visibly washing off Rick.

"I'll say," he beamed. "I'm not a cop anymore, Daryl."

Later, Daryl would think that he should have won an Oscar for the poker face he kept.

"What ya doin' fer work?"

"Nothing, not for a while anyway. I've done my 20 years in the force. Took a pension – a pretty good one after getting shot." Rick's smile was slightly self-satisfied.

"Can't believe ya quit," Daryl shook his head. "Why?"

Rick looked more serious as he answered.

"I always thought that the good guys put the bad guys away and that was that. I was naive. I never thought a girl could be killed and it not be investigated properly. I never thought that I'd start to find it hard to tell the difference between a good guy and a bad guy."

"Huh."

"You're saying that a lot," Rick teased. "Huh."

Daryl sniffed, thinking about the sleepy, heavy heat down in Savannah; the eerie, crumbling old buildings; the creaking bookshelves in his room at Connie's, where underneath he'd lie on his bed, smoke a little weed now and again. Rick didn't fit into that world, surely he had to admit that himself.

But he sure didn't look like he fitted here anymore, either. Any more than Daryl did.

"Lotta dead ones down in Savannah, ya know," Daryl said.

Rick rocked back and forth on his heels, shrugging.

"So? Here's empty. Not of dead ones. But of everything."

He was right. They were deep into October now, the leaves outside the trailer as beautiful as only those woods could be, but Daryl felt the melancholy of it too.

"Why'd ya think I left here, Grimes?" Daryl asked. "Felt like a dead one myself, always have. Until... until ya picked me up in that cop car of yers an' made me feel less like a fuckin' ghost."

The look in Rick's eyes at those words just about tore Daryl's heart into shreds. Daryl had come back to life since he'd met Rick. Maybe they both had. They weren't dead ones any longer.

"So?" Rick whispered.

"Grimes -" Daryl shook his head wearily.

Rick raised an eyebrow, and Daryl gave a short nod.

"Yer gonna love Savannah at Halloween," he said.